


The Art of Losing

by redphlox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Anastasia AU, F/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redphlox/pseuds/redphlox
Summary: While the people in Maka’s life have always been temporary, the gold wedding ring that serves as the only link to her hazy past is anything but. It’s only when she befriends piano prodigy Soul Evans and they journey across the world together that she realizes people can become more than just fleeting - and that the truth about her past is closer than she had ever imagined. Anastasia AU. SoulxMaka.





	1. Loss is a language

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of my entries for ResBang 2016! An Anastasia AU, featuring Soul and Maka, of course. thank you to lunar–resonance, thefishywitchy, soul-of-glass, and the-brightest-fell for their support, and to tenbrisael and professor-maka for beta'ing. couldn't have finished this without them!
> 
> warnings: death of minor characters before the start of the fic, vague mentions of depression and alcoholism.
> 
> i beg everyone to check out soundofez's gifs/art and sojustifiable's song/art for this fic! i'll post links in my profile. they truly made this come to life and i'm humbled by their work. the sheer amount of talent they possess individually is astonishing, so to be lucky enough to have both of them as partners has been amazing :']
> 
> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoy.

**The Art of Losing** by _redphlox_

No matter how long Maka stares, she can't quite come up with a color to describe his eyes.

Tonight, he's sneaking glances while pretending to drink his coffee. She catches him and wonders for the thousandth time where they've met before as he blushes a vivid red and turns away. He's vaguely familiar - she must have crossed paths with him in a past life. Or maybe she's asleep and he's slipped into her dreams, returning like a ghost stuck in a loop.

After all, a certain dreamlike ethereality comes over the bakery at closing time: the sense that time stands still, and the faraway feeling that they're meeting again for the first time whenever they make eye contact.

It's like deja-vu every time she sees him. It makes her head fuzzy.

All Maka knows is she can't help but feel drawn to the frequent patron with the habit of overstaying his welcome, though she never speaks more than five words to him as she refills his coffee mug or serves his favorite chocolate-slathered pastries. The fascination isn't because he's the epitome of high class, with his pristine coats, cedarwood-scented cologne, and hefty tips once he pays his tab - it's his presence, like he's something from a memory.

Someone she's forgetting to remember.

Usually she likes his quiet company, likes the game of cat and mouse they play of catching the other staring, but today she's irascible and wants to go home, even if tomorrow will bring heartbreak. The night has fallen, her head throbs, and her sore feet cry for the sanctity of her lumpy bed and a soothing book. It's not been a good day.

With an inaudible sigh, Maka undoes her apron, hangs it in the backroom, tightens her pigtails, and marches to his table where he's staring down at his messy, musical note scribbled parchment paper.

"We're closed," she announces, offering him a semi-forced polite smile.

His gaze flickers up at her before glancing around. Maka thinks he looks a little lost as it dawns on him that they're the last two left in the bakery. "Didn't notice... sorry."

"Mhmm," she hums, arms folded.

The heat of the oven has long faded and wintery freeze creeps inside from beneath windows that never shut properly, but she suppresses a shiver, never one to back down. Meaning to intimidate, she hovers while he crumbles the inky paper and stuffs the rest in a thick portfolio. She toys with the idea of impatiently tapping her foot as he takes the time to stretch, unhurriedly putting his arms in the air and yawning.

"Tired?" She raises a brow to punctuate the rhetorical question. "Well, me too."

He nods. "Yeah, you were running around like a madwoman. It was busy today."

Part of Maka, the one who's been inexplicably curious about this almost-stranger, sees this as an opportunity to finally break the ice, to ask where they might have seen each other. But her temper is short, excruciatingly short, and she wants to be asleep more than anything. "Exactly. And I just want to close the bakery so I can go home."

 _Now_ the stranger furrows remorseful brows, and as he packs his things up reluctantly, it triggers something vague in her memory, of someone else not wanting to leave. She senses a distant fear and dread and misery from him, but the thought is gone as quickly as it surfaces.

What brings her back to reality isn't his low voice mumbling apologies, but his height. A head and a half taller than her when he finally scrapes back his chair and stands, he proceeds to button his parka with shaky fingers, like he's running out of time. Something about the quiet abruptness of their parting is fitting. It makes sense, but she doesn't quite know why or how.

Maybe in another life they didn't have time to say goodbye.

"Sorry for the trouble," he mumbles, putting down more money than what he probably owes, tucking his portfolio between his elbow and ignoring her protests. Heavy footsteps fill the bakery as he heads for the door, a 'thank you' stuck in Maka's throat.

He lingers with his hand poised on the doorknob. "You remind me of someone who was lost long ago," he says thoughtfully, like he's desperately holding onto a memory that wants to be forgotten.

Leaving when she says nothing, the bells above the entrance chime his goodbye.

X

“Okay, I'm leaving!” Blake yells into the house, the children scattering with semi-terrified screams at the sound of his voice. Stomping inside as the door slams shut behind him, he tracks snow all over the floor Maka finished mopping only minutes earlier and throws his hands down on the table where she’s sitting, oblivious to her disapproving grimace. “This is it! All the stuff I don’t need is in the garbage where it belongs. Now I'm gone for good this time.”

Maka wedges her hands beneath her thighs, a knot in her throat. She's been dreading this moment for days - years even, a lifetime. Eye contact is not a skill she can master at the moment. "Good riddance," she says, determined to hold on to misplaced anger. It's easier than feeling the inevitable loss of a surrogate brother.

Blake barks with laughter. He never lets negativity eat away at him, and combined with his ability to read her like a book, it's obvious to her that his loud-mouthed, graceless attempts at conversation are his best efforts to ease the heaviness of going their separate ways. "Don't be sad. We'll be pen pals, if you want. I know you like that nerdy kinda emotional stuff."

She could cry, though it would do no good, bring no justice, no remedy to the sorrow lurking in mere minutes when he's out the door for the last time. It's happened too many times before. The orphanage churns out its inhabitants at the age of eighteen to make room for younger children, and while Maka has said more goodbyes than she cares to count, this is by far the hardest.

"Don't cry," Blake reminds, leaning in so closely she can see his pores.

Sticking a hand in his face to push him away, she swallows the hurt as best as she can. "I'm not _crying_ , I'm thinking!"

"Same thing, for you." He pockets his hands, smirking. In his oversized winter jacket, he looks child-like, which doesn't help mitigate the pain - Blake's always been muscular but small-statured, and now that she doesn't know when she'll see him next, the fear of missing out on his life is cavernous. The thought that he won't be around for her to see if he grows a couple of inches taller stings like salt in a wound.

"Just leave already," she says, clenching her jaw in the immediate silence. It's not the most infallible way to hold in tears, but she's promised herself not break down in front of Blake, who pulls up a chair, apparently bent on prolonging the heartbreak.

"Next year you'll be leaving too," he begins, thoughtful. Rare is it for him to show the more somber side of his personality. The worry line traversing his forehead formed by wrinkled brows is startling. "You'll be eighteen and you can start a new life. You can be whoever you want."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Maka summons all the pent-up resentment she's been storing. "You're going to forget all about Auntie and the kids and the orphanage - and me?"

The look he gives her is genuinely innocent. "I couldn't forget even if I was dropped on my head like you were, No Name."

"Don't call me that. And I wasn't dropped, I hate it when you say that!" Maka certainly doesn't know if that's true or not - no one does - but she can pretend. It's not that she's scattered-brain; she's just not all there, stuck in a past life.

"Right," he says, strumming his fingers on the table. "Just don't forget me either. I know that happens to you, with your memory loss and everything."

There's a permanent lump in her throat. She can't reply.

He shifts around, probably searching for safer words to use now that her impatience is borderline dangerous. She feels like water a few seconds before it begins to boil. Though she possesses many talents, hiding her emotions isn't one of them, and neither is covering one up with another. Tears are imminent, whether they're born from anger or the kind of grief that rims her eyes with painful red for days.

Blake snaps his fingers to get her attention, which doesn't bode well with her. "Remember when we were little and we'd give each other new names and make up new lives?"

Maka stares daggers, holding her breath. She can't cry if she can't breathe because she's filled to the brim with rage, right?

"Well… now that can be a reality. And, if you remember, we were always related to each other in some way when we played that game." Blake sits up straight, sighing before standing up and pushing the chair in - something he's never done, despite Auntie's constant scolding. "So yeah. Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I'm gonna forget you. And anyway, I'm basically being _kicked_ out. Otherwise I'd stay here to liven things up, but Auntie would slaughter me and use my dead body as a flag or something-"

Maka breaks like glass that's been under pressure far too long: all too quickly, with a sharp and painful gasp, dangerously. Sobs wrack her chest. Everything's in a blur thanks to the tears now streaming down her cheeks, each clipped breath she takes adds to the hurt she's trying to cleanse out, and soon she's reduced to a hyperventilating little girl whose throat begins to ache from inhaling cold air.

She hates crying.

All she can do is hide behind her hands while Blake stands there silently, offering a rough pat on her head. Childhood memories of him helping her up whenever she fell, saving an extra cookie for her, and offering well-meaning comfort when other grown up children left the orphanage come rushing in, and it's honestly the first coherent, sane thought she's had all day.

"Shhh, it'll be okay," he's saying. "Auntie wouldn't skin me now that I'm an adult... I think."

"That's not why I'm crying," Maka sniffles. Her face is hot. Another wave of emotions is on the horizon, so taking advantage of this clear moment to communicate is a must. "There's no way we could lose each other even if we tried, right?"

"Nope. We're stuck. That's what I've been trying to tell you, No Name. You're just stubborn and you don't listen, you know?"

"When I'm an adult, I want official papers to say that my name is Maka," she declares, wiping her nose, easily pretending they're children again and not two youths at a fork in the road. "And I want to have a last name. And I want to find my parents and have a family."

Some of the orphans at the home don't care about their past, or lack thereof. Blake (goofy, maniacal Blake, whose tendency to escape from the orphanage was celebrated by both Auntie and other children alike, for his love for mischief proved to be more than what could be handled) has never flinched at his parentless life. He's his own guardian and no one can make or break him – he's the star of his own life, and never misses an opportunity to remind her that she is in command of hers, too.

It's always been clear that Maka, who taught herself to read, write, and solve complex math problems that students half her age couldn't work out, is self-sufficient, even graduating a year early to focus on saving money before it's her turn to move out. She has Blake to thank for her strength, though. Rough, overprotective Blake, only a year her elder, her rival and best friend all rolled into one bullheaded tank of energy.

Life at the orphanage is both melancholic and comfy, but Maka had reveled in it, in having an almost normal childhood, a sort-of older brother, in the makeshift family they had. Together, things felt right, natural, with plenty of baby siblings to play with and an adult figure who stuck her neck out for them if trouble came their way. But once upon a time, Maka had a _real_ family, and she can't stop thinking about the what-ifs and things she fuzzily remembers.

The almosts haunt her. She wants them to stay, to have been a reality.

Now that Blake's leaving, the last remnants of her childhood she had are lost. Sure, Maka had known from the start this day would come, that their time together came with a deadline, but it still hurts. His permanence has always been fleeting. At least she's self reliant, even though the memory loss has her reeling, afraid she's not entirely here.

It's hard to accept that everything is changing; he's leaving, and she has to learn to let go with dignity and grace.

"So don't stress out about things you can't remember," he finishes, punching her on the shoulder gently. "We don't need last name or parents, so if… if you don't find either of yours, that's okay."

"At least you have a last name," she grumbles, feeling misunderstood. "I'm Maka, No Last Name, no solid past to speak of. It's like I was born as a six-year-old with someone else's memories or something."

"Look, the way I see it, you can make up your own last name. I have one, but I've always been at this dump. So it's not fair that some people I can't remember picked something to call me and then beat it, or kicked the bucket, or whatever. Same for you. You're Maka, and that's it. Don't worry too much."

It's true that Maka is no one's daughter. No matter how much she has tried to gloss over it and spin the words so it doesn't sound poignant, the fact that she had a past but can't remember it is damaging, hollowing, the loneliest reality.

For the last few months, Blake has refused to let anyone accompany him to the train station, and now the day has arrived he's upholding his resolve. He steals Maka's uneaten toast and slathers it with extra butter for an energy boost for the trip west while Maka scolds him to cover up the fact that she's already missing him terribly.

"I've never had, like, a Life Plan," he says between mouthfuls, crumbs sprinkled on his chin. "And you don't really have one either - _don't_ get mad, just listen... You might only have a first name, but you're gonna go far. That's all I'm saying."

"I can have it all," she says, as if saying it made it true. How she's going to make it come true, she doesn't know, but she's nothing if not stubborn in her dedication.

Blake nods in agreement, shuffling to the door when it's evident they're both out of things to say before his departure. He pokes his head and arms out, dragging in a cardboard box.

"I got this kitten for you," he says offhandedly, shoving the vulnerable bundle at her roughly. "Thought you two had lots in common. I was walking down the street when I saw a dog was trying to bite it and it reminded me of you. All small and baby-ish and kind of dumb and lost. Just don't let Auntie see her - you know how she says she can't house any more animals."

"Thanks, Blake," she says softly, pausing to sniffle. Then, tougher: "And I'm _not_ a baby. Or dumb."

He shrugs, glancing around the kitchen one last time, refusing to look at her. By the way his shoulders curve in and his voice softens, the moment and its significance has gotten to him, too. "What're you gonna name it?"

"Blair," Maka decides, looking at its shiny black fur and tiny paws.

"No last name, like you?"

"Not until I find out my real last name. Then we can both have the same one."

She thanks him, he tells her to think nothing of it, and they hug for the last time in what will be quite a while, Maka holding on until he grumbles about snot on his jacket in a funny-sounding, shaky voice. His exit is less exuberant than his entrance, shutting the door quietly behind him. Maka watches him through the kitchen's window - he doesn't look back, and she doesn't expect him to, but Blake _does_ waver at the gate, and that makes her eyes sting all over again.

X

Maka loses her hat the next day.

Of course, it's replaceable - most things are gained with the distant understanding that it's meant to be lost at some point, to be forgotten or discarded. The temporariness of things isn't what makes Maka's eyes glassy or the tip of her nose red with emotion.

It's the timing.

Yesterday Blake moved onto a different phase of his life, and today, probably because she has a habit of tossing on her winter accessories as she dashes out the door, her only hat apparently fell to the snow-blanketed ground somewhere during the trek between the orphanage and the bakery.

At least she hasn't lost her ring. That would devastate her to pieces.

Retracing her steps means reporting late to her shift, but at this point, Maka can't take any more losses, material or not. Auntie will probably find Maka another job if she gets fired from this one, so Maka turns around and hopes for the best. The snow is ankle-deep and stark white, blinding under the sun's warmth-less rays – spotting the hat should be easier than finding a stain on a wedding dress, but it isn't. She follows her footprints back to the orphanage to no avail.

The hat is gone forever.

Maka straightens her back, clenches her jaw, and heads back toward town with her chin held high. She won't cry. It feels like freezing glass scrapes at her ears when the wind howls, but she doesn't allow herself to flinch. She doesn't grin, but she bears it. Even her neck feels naked and freezing –

"You dropped this," a voice says when she stops at a crosswalk, holding a bundle of cloth in front of her. It _seems_ familiar, with its deep red hue and fringed ends, and then it clicks – it's her scarf. "It flew off of you in the wind."

"Thank you, thank you," she sighs, holding it close like a lost loved one and feeling the knot in her throat tighten because she narrowly missed losing something _again_ , this time without knowing. She squeezes her eyes shut to seal away tears before looking up and – "Oh! It's you!"

He blinks as if he's woken up from a dream, dazed and astounded. Maka thinks she's on the threshold of coming up with a name for the color of his eyes when he says, "I didn't recognize you... You're the girl from the bakery…"

She feels dizzy. "Yeah, I'm going there right now."

Something about seeing him outside of the bakery is surreal and moving, like she's remembering another time they bumped into each other by chance and she held out her hand to ask something, but the epiphany slips away like most precious things do.

She hates when things are on the verge of being.

Her cheeks burn as she remembers her briskness last night. "I apologize about yesterday…"

"Don't mention it. I _did_ stay past closing. I was so, uh, engrossed in my music I guess time just slipped by."

She wraps the scarf around her like a shawl and, when she finds that he's still staring like he's seen a daydream come to life, offers him a companionable smile. "Were you on your way to the bakery, too? We can walk together."

They tread snow in comfortable silence, Maka wallowing in what he said the night before - that he reminds her of someone who was lost. No other word captures her quite like that one, and the fact that she doesn't believe in coincidences makes her think he might be onto something. She'd fallen asleep thinking about that possibility last night, so it's funny they're together now – they seem to be together a lot unintentionally, him spending hours composing at the bakery while Maka fills orders and decorates cakes.

By the time they're around the corner from the shop, she has gathered enough bravery to strike up a conversation. "About what you said yesterday... I feel like I've seen you, too. You're like a memory or a dream or something. Where have we met before?"

He squints with the effort of remembering. "... At a ball? Years ago?"

The disappointment gives her a stomach ache. She's had dreams about elegant balls with fancy china and live orchestras and a boy who played a song for her, but she hasn't been to one. "You must be thinking of someone else. I don't even know how to dance."

There he is again, staring. She can't help feeling like she's missing something important.

"What's your name?" he asks, looking worried.

"Maka, I think."

He goes still. "And your last name?"

"This is going to sound strange but, I - I don't have one. Or at least, I don't remember it."

She wants to explain more, wants to start from the beginning and pull out the ring that hangs from the necklace around her neck to share a little of herself, but opening up might ensure she never stops talking, never stops hurting.

He seems to understand. "Maka," he repeats, saying it slowly to see how it fits in his mouth. It must click right because he says it two more times. "That sounds familiar."

Usually this is when the other person says their name and introductions are passed around. Instead, he holds the door to the bakery open for her, but doesn't follow. He was just passing by, he says when she asks if he would like his usual order, and he saw her scarf fly off and didn't want her to miss it.

She could cry but it wouldn't fix anything. It's never been about things, never, but the symbolism of losing her hat right after Blake left is too coincidental for her to ignore. And even though the ice between herself and the stranger isn't quite broken, she definitely can't ignore that the scarf has brought them closer...

But, of course, he was just passing by.

X

Loss is a language, one Maka is inherently fluent in. It's a skill, an art. Maybe she had too much practice in a previous life.

People are fleeting and don't return, even if they promise otherwise.

Even Mamas and Papas.

Maka harbors no ill will towards them, whether they meant to leave suddenly or not, whether they came back and looked for her to no avail or simply turned their backs without a second thought... But not knowing what exactly happened is hurting her. She's suffering somewhere deep within herself, sorrow accumulating on her like lint. It must be why life seems abstractly pointless sometimes.

After all, people come and go. Even feelings and memories are temporary.

The transience of it all haunts her. It's not fair.

Lately, when she's too tired to sleep, which is always, she cuddles in her bed with Blair, cozy underneath her blanket. Tonight Maka's mind buzzes with things she almost remembers, with a piano song she wonde. Loneliness and loss always hit her worst at night, probably because she possesses next to zero energy after a long day to battle insecurities around bedtime.

"Blair, if I left, would you go with me?"

The kitten only looks up to stare blankly.

"Doesn't matter," Maka decides after losing the staring contest. It was a matter of time - her eyelids are heavy with perpetual drowsiness. "I'd take you with me."

X

Maka is forced to sneak Blair into work when Auntie grows suspicious of the meows and scratching noises coming from Maka's room in the attic. Pets aren't allowed in the house and Auntie is more terrifying than a dictator when she's enforcing rules. Maka is lucky that the other two small beds in that room are empty, but she doesn't like to think about it too much - she's in the room the older kids move to before they leave permanently. To think that she's the eldest child at the home is unreal and semi-terrifying.

"Shh, be quiet and don't make make too much of a mess," she implores, making a nest for the kitten in a basket she finds in the broom closet. Every time Maka tries to leave, Blair jumps out and follows her until Maka gently nudges her away with her foot. She keeps the door ajar so Blair won't be left in the dark but props a broom in the crack, hoping it keeps her contained.

It works until _he_ walks in, the bell's chime stirring Blair's curiosity and forcing Maka to put away the book she pulls out when the bakery is slow.

The sound of the broom hitting the floor alerts Maka of the animal on the loose, but she's busy taking the young man's order - coffee. He runs on coffee and pastries no matter what time of day. Fear of being fired if customers find out their food may have feline fur on it replaces the excitement that buzzed through her at seeing him again. She doesn't think he'll report it to the store owner, but anyone else who walks in may not be as understanding.

Blair doesn't have a care in the world. No shame, no tact. She prances across the cafe, her black coat obvious against the hardwood floor.

The stranger's mouth falls open. "Is that… a cat?"

Maka winces from behind the counter, coffee mug held midair. "Yes? … I'm so sorry, I can't keep her locked in my room at the home anymore. I promise she's gentle and listens really well!"

Of course, Blair doesn't. No matter how many times Maka pleads or bribes or threatens, Blair refuses to stay still, choosing to strut from table to table and brush up on the stranger's legs, wearing a coy smirk. Soon she's bouncing off the walls with Maka hot on her tail, meows sounding like laughter at Maka's profuse swearing.

The customer shimmies off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he bends down, beckoning Blair. "Okay, c'mere…"

Curiosity seizes her - like human, like pet. She stops in her tracks, ears twitching, and stares at him with coherent yellow eyes, seemingly calculating her next move. She takes a hesitant step toward him. Two, three, until she's taking a leap and cuddling in his arms, purring, content beyond belief, and the young man grins wide at Maka and _oh_ , has she seen his dimple somewhere before?

"Thanks - that's the second time you've given me something I've lost…" Maka holds her hands out, ready to take the rogue kitten, but Blair must know that Maka is planning to lock her in a cage for a million years as punishment because the hisses that come out of her mouth are deafening. A frantic flurry of paws and claws and teeth result in Maka shrieking and gashes across the stranger's face, right near his dimple.

The next five minutes finds him sitting on a chair while Maka dabs a rubbing alcohol soaked cotton ball on his cheek. He won't accept any of her apologies. Maka doesn't know what's worse - that Blair violently attacked her customer, or that she's currently curled up in his lap while Maka cleans up her mess.

"... It's fine," he's saying. By the way he's tapping his foot irregularly and not giving in to Blair's nuzzles for a scratch behind the ears, Maka knows it's not. "At least she didn't get me in the eyes. I need to be able to see to write music."

Mortified or not, his paradoxical statement doesn't elude her. "Would extra blueberry muffins help you feel better?"

He finally looks up at her, contemplating. She's delighted to see him with his cap off, to find out that his hair is snowy white and tousled and goes well with his almond-shaped eyes. "I think muffins would help me feels tons better," he concedes, grinning, flinching because of the scratches.

"What's your name?" she asks, staring.

"Soul."

It's a lovely name. Maka adds it to what seems will be a long list of things about him that fascinate. He bites down a smile as she compliments his dimple and they spend the rest of the evening together, taking breaks from their respective work to say something to the other, the ice between them beginning to break.

x

After that evening, Maka soon finds that she can't stop thinking about the boy from the bakery.

No – the young _man_. The only boyish thing about Soul is his crooked, sheepish smile, the way he slouches forward as if uncomfortable in his body, like he doesn't know how to exist in it. He doesn't walk around with his nose in the air like the other young adults do in his position, the ones who are freshly cut loose from their parent's financial restrictions. Trust fund babies don't mull over work in a bakery, don't sit and people watch, don't hold stranger's cats.

And they definitely don't talk to girls wearing worn ankle boots, especially not poverty-stricken ones like Maka.

Maybe that's why all her thoughts lead back to him. Soul _did_ say she seemed familiar. It feels right being with him. No one's ever stopped and stared at her, slack-jawed, when they saw her across the room for the first time. Part of Maka wants to be immortalized and this might it - he _does_ wear a pensive face when he stares out of the corner of his eye.

She's a realist through and through, but she can permit herself some space to hope he's recognized her? That he knows who she is?

After all, Soul seems like a dream, too - a cross between a memory and a fantasy. Too good to be true. It's not just his words _"you remind me of someone who was lost,"_ but his eyes. They're not quite right. They're just… beautiful. Familiar.

More often than not, Maka falls asleep trying to put a name to the color of his irises.

x

When Maka wakes up sometimes, it feels like she's still sleeping. Or maybe it's the other way around, because in her dreams it feels like she's awake.

There is always a glorious ball.

Maka floats in the middle of the dance floor, a child who's barely tall enough to reach the grown up's hips. A gold dress, a brilliantly gold dress like sunshine, falls around her feet, and there are people, hundreds of people, swaying around her as majestically and in sync as figurines rotating on a music box. Heigh ceilings float above her head, polished floors shine beneath her shoes, but nothing exists outside of that. When Maka looks up all she can see is are reflective gems hanging off the chandeliers, and when she blinks she finds she's still looking at the tiles.

And then, from one breath to the next, she's a stranger to herself. Nothing else in the world exists but fragile serenity, and she can't seem to remember her own name. There is beauty everywhere, sadness looming in the distance, like someone's getting tired of holding their breath. Maka looks around but can't see her parents to ask for help but it's okay, even though something tells her it isn't and she ignores it.

Her dream is always like this, like she's aware of the premonition but can't change the course of events because she's reliving it.

Hair bundled in pigtails, she spins in circles to make them sail around her head, focused on nothing but trying to go faster. It's not until she bumps into someone her age with strange eyes that she's aware she's dancing by herself. She's not sure what color his irises are but it doesn't matter; she's just glad he's there. Now she's not alone and she can share the moment with someone. Besides - he looks lonely, and Maka feels an urge to talk to him.

He has beautiful eyes, like rubies.

She wants to dance with him. The moment she realizes this desire, he's off the floor, hand in hers. They twirl around in the crowd like two peas in a pod.

It feels right being here with him.

"My name is Maka," she says to the boy who looks like someone she has never known but wants to know for some reason. She's never been around kids her age and she's excited to meet anyone she can.

"Happy birthday, Maka. I'm going to play you a song on the piano as a present. I'm nervous."

This party must be in honor of her. She has no idea how he knew that without her knowing first, but the thought dissolves as soon as she thinks it.

He looks worried. His hair is parted neatly and brushed to the side, and she knows he doesn't like it by the way he lets go of her hand to play with it. When he says his name, Maka thinks it's nice. She doesn't quite hear it but it's there and she likes it. She can't remember forming the words either, but they are there too, floating in mid-air between herself and the boy.

She squeezes his hand. "Don't be nervous. If you want, I'll close my eyes while you play."

"I have to play up there." Not even voices are sturdy things, Maka thinks, because his breaks. She follows his gaze to the grand piano on the raised platform in the front of the ballroom. "In front of everyone."

"My papa will tell everyone to close their eyes." She's sure of it, doubtless in her trust of her parents. They take good care of her, so it only makes sense they would take care of him, too. "I'll go ask him right now, if you want."

"I have to face my fears," the boy insists, terror lighting up his eyes. "People scare me but I'm tired of feeling like this, so I'm going to do it."

"You're so brave. I want to be just like you!"

"Oh, you don't." He sounds dead, or like he wants to be. "I'm not good at anything besides piano, and even that's kind of awful."

She points out that since they started dancing together, they haven't crashed into anyone, and that's all thanks to him. Didn't he say she was a bad dancer? She doesn't remember him saying it but it makes sense. She had knocked him down when she was twirling around, after all. "So you've already taught me lots."

He looks hopeful. "Thanks."

Maka can't stop staring at his smile. "What's that hole on your face?"

He lets go of her hand to cover up the side of his mouth. "That's my dimple. It embarrasses me."

"Don't hide it, I think it's cute!"

Twirling around the dance floor with him is lovely, surreal. When Maka smiles he does, and when he leads, she follows. He's also a good listener. He listens all about Papa and Mama and her favorite ice cream and Mama's gold wedding ring Maka loves so so _so_ much. Maka's been promised that one day when she grows up it'll be hers.

"I'll introduce you to Mama and Papa and then I'll show you the ring," she says. "But only after you play."

"Okay. I should get ready then," he says, and Maka nods, distantly sad their time together is cut short. Then the boy smiles and extends a hand to her, bowing. "I owe you a dance when I get back."

Maka knows he won't be back, but not because he doesn't want to. How does she know that?

"Sorry you don't like playing in front of crowds. There should be a curtain or something so people don't have to look at you. I can ask Papa to get one for you."

Maka has absolutely no idea what she's talking about, but it makes sense to the boy.

"You're nice," he says. "Do you… do you want to be my friend?" The boy looks surprised the words came out of his mouth.

"Me? Really?" Maka gasps, and then bursts into a fit of giggles, covering her mouth. "I would love to!"

He looks thoughtful. "I hope you like my song," he sighs, and drifts off, leaving Maka to stare after his retreating figure, thinking hard, but no thoughts come to her. Where are her thoughts? Where is her mind?

Maka watches her new friend play on stage. It's a lovely song, light and magical, like a dream, a lullaby. And then he's fading, fading away, and the overbright party turns dark and scary. There's a red-haired man crying and people screaming in the background while Mama takes off her ring and necklace and gives them to Maka as a consolation because they're going their separate ways.

In the end, her parents aren't the ones who leave - Maka is, even if she doesn't want to, like her new friend she doesn't see ever again in this life.

But at least Maka has her mama's ring.


	2. Some kind of psychedelic daydream

"I can't believe you're kicking me out… _again_. This is the second time."

"Ahh! I'm _sorry_ about that, but I had to! Let me live it down," Maka wails, spinning around to fight off an inexplicable blush. Busying herself by pushing and pulling on the doorknob to test if the door is locked properly can only buy her so much time. Actually, she's not sure if she'll ever be ready to turn around and meet Soul's gaze – she hasn't quite yet put a name to the color of his eyes, but she knows if she stares too long it'll deepen her faraway fondness toward him, and she's not sure what any of it means.

Maybe it's already too late. In the back of her head, Maka already wishes the quiet evenings she and Soul spend together at the bakery would go on forever, and maybe even longer if they haven't opened up to each other by then. They're still caught in the purgatory between strangers and friends, even if they're breaking that ice by sharing small tidbits of themselves through sporadic conversation.

Still, Maka can't help but want to dive in headfirst to see what makes him tick. Ambition is both her flaw and strength that way.

She takes a breath and turns around, confident that the redness on her cheeks can be chalked up to the freezing wind's assault. Soul is right there like she imagined, patiently waiting for her. Although it doesn't catch her unawares, it feels like deja vu being here with him, getting ready to go their separate ways but drawing out their goodbye because neither of them wants to leave.

"S'kinda cold." When he talks, mists come out from his mouth and disappear in seconds, like her thoughts. "You definitely need something warmer than that scarf."

She puts her mitten covered hands over her ears distractedly. "Well, since I lost my hat, this is all I have." There's a lump in her throat suddenly, and she doesn't like the fact that there's a shadow cloaking his eyes when he puts on his newsboy cap. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah… tomorrow," he says, looking disappointed. Maka can't help but think it's because of her, but she's cold and already moving away. She could cry about her lost hat, if she let herself, but she doesn't want Soul to see that.

X

Soul's quiet presence makes the days blur together like some kind of psychedelic daydream, but Maka can't savor the feeling of befriending him when it feels like she already knows him from somewhere. What bothers her most is that the answer lies right there, just beneath the surface, barely out of her reach. There are things about Soul she shouldn't know, like his fear of social settings and the aversion he has for his dimple, but the walls built around him are new for some reason.

They weren't there before.

But that shouldn't hurt her feelings - they're getting to know each other _now_ for the first time. Even if it feels like in another life he opened up to her easily, she's here with him in _this_ life, and nothing's easy in this life. Maka just doesn't like the feeling of being held at a distance; it makes her think she's losing something before it's even hers. That would be a new heartbreak she hasn't encountered yet.

The art of losing is bittersweet like that.

What especially doesn't sit well with Maka is Soul's sudden reluctance to be around Blair when he seemed to like her at first. Sure, Blair left four strawberry-red scratches alongside his face, but they had healed quickly, and Blair deserves more chances to be accepted and loved outside of first impressions. Maka can't help but take it personally. After all, she loves the little kitten with the penchant for mischief more than anything, and thinks of Blair as an extension of herself.

She wonders if he's using Blair as an excuse not to get too close. It's not fair. All Maka wants is to remember where she's seen him before and to be his friend, because they would fit together so well if only they would let it happen. She's not surprised – it took them this long to talk to each other, months of staring before the night he stayed too long in the bakery. It's like they're hiding behind smokescreens in a maze of mirrors and she can't tell which way they're going sometimes.

"Is that cat here?" Soul takes to asking when he arrives at the bakery, portfolio tucked between his arm and side.

Today, because upsetting assumptions have been running through her mind, Maka has had enough. Thinking about how things change for no reason makes her face hot with emotion. "Her name is _Blair_ , and she's always where I am. I already told you. I'm not allowed to have pets so I bring her everywhere I go."

The trouble with Soul is his glass face. She can see the machinery inside him work and stutter as he thinks. It helps that he has a nice face to look at, but he wears worry and regret too well. "Sorry…"

Maka gives him an honest look, letting go of her misplaced anger. She's never been one to hide her feelings well (but dear God does she try), and the frown she wears is genuine. "Why don't you like Blair? Are you afraid of her?"

He snorts. "She's not even bigger than my shoe. Of course I'm not afraid! She's just… mean."

The word is chosen clumsily and half-heartedly but it still gets to Maka, who pouts. "She's a baby! And she doesn't know her own strength. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you - are you even listening? Why are you laughing?"

Soul tries to stop grinning even though Maka inwardly wishes he wouldn't. It's nice. "I don't think I've ever seen you mad before. Well, except for that one time you kicked me out-"

If it weren't considered unprofessional, she would leap over the counter and shake him by the shoulders until his smirk fell off. She's _so_ embarrassed, something he seems to take pleasure in - _oh_ , he reminds her of Blake. It's frustrating and reassuring all at once. "You're about to see me mad more often if you don't stop hating Blair. And I'm sorry about kicking you out!"

The way his eyes squint when he grins really wide is mesmerizing, especially with their strange color.

Recently, it's Maka who can't stop staring. Coaxing him to come out of his shell is quickly becoming one of her favorite pastimes because it's like watching snow melt when the sun is too bright. But she won't let herself get sentimental about that right now. With a _humph,_ she goes back to reading her book and pretends not to watch him from the corner of her eye.

That's why she sees his horror when one customer makes a beeline to talk to him on her way out of the shop hours later.

"I heard your playing the other night at the church. It was beautiful," a woman wearing an outlandish hat with a large fake flower on top says to him, holding a loaf of bread like a baby.

"Thank you." Polite but curt, he slouches over, covering his work with his forearm. It reminds Maka of the way paranoid, wary children protect themselves against being copied during tests at school.

"Marvelous, simply marvelous, as always!" the woman praises, starting a fanatical rant about how much she's looking forward to his recital, asking if his brother will be visiting anytime soon. "A reunion must be in the works," she insists, clearly unreceptive to Soul's discomfort.

"My brother hasn't mentioned visiting in his letters," is his reply, ducking his head down, focus re-aimed on writing music. "And he doesn't play anymore."

The woman isn't listening. "Yes, a Wes and Soul Evans brothers collaboration is needed in this world," she muses. Minutes later she's out the door, finally having picked up from his one worded answers that ebbed into grunts that he didn't want to be bothered. Soul slumps over his work, brow furrowed, holding his fountain pen too tightly, occasionally sipping from his mug.

From Maka's place behind the counter, she can feel his mood sour. An opportunity to sashay over presents itself when she notices he hasn't reached for his coffee in a while. "Want a refill? Looks like you might need it, you've been working so hard."

"I guess," he mumbles, not looking at her. He's shutting down right in front of her and it wouldn't be right to be angry with him, but how can she not be when he won't take the hand she holds out to keep him from drowning?

"I didn't know you were a musician!" But it fits somehow. She knew without knowing. And not just because she's seen him scribbling musical notes in the past. "Do you only write music for the piano, or is it for whole orchestras?"

Soul looks at her with wide eyes. "How did you know I play piano? I don't think I've ever mentioned it…."

Maka touches her forehead. "It… made sense?"

X

She learns that Soul Evans loves sweets above anything else, doesn't have a regular sleeping schedule, is taking a break from a piano tour to spend time with his parents, and is inherently lonely. The latter especially doesn't come as a surprise - most precious things wander aimlessly, lost.

That could be why Maka can't help but feel connected to him.

He's full of life in the way that goes unnoticed but is very much needed, like breathing, or moonlight during dark nights. The silent type who thinks too much and observes more than he should, Soul reads people like he reads music scores, to the point he can predict what's going to happen. All things have flows, he tells Maka when she asks why he likes to compose, why he likes to travel.

For some reason, he knows Maka isn't good with music, that she has no rhythm. How he's so sure of that assumption just from watching her tap her fingers on the counter when boredom strikes, she doesn't know. He's odd that way, knowing things without her telling him.

Soul has a habit of covering his grins with his hand, and today is not the day he breaks it. "Stop tapping your fingers, Maka. It sounds like you're trying to choke a woodpecker."

Bantering has quickly become one of their favorite methods of communication. She could laugh at his quip, but that would be admitting he has some kind of pull on her. Instead, she pretends to seethe.

"I - that was unnecessary and _rude_ ," she cries. "Take it back!"

"I would never tell a lie, Maka. So I'm not taking it back."

He's as infuriating as he is wonderful.

Days go by, and when she thinks she has him figured out, she's quick to lecture him about eating a balanced diet the first time he orders four muffins instead of his usual two. Regret hits her when he replies that he meant to share with her, his voice soft with hesitance. Then, a week later when she tries to make up for it by baking a miniature cake for him, Blair escapes from the back while Maka heads inside to pick up extra flour and chases him around the bakery. Nothing Maka does for him seems to end right, and it's both hilarious and aggravating.

"Listen here, you have no right to make fun of me when I'm the one who prepares your food. I _tried_ , okay?" She folds her arms across her chest for the added effect and taps her foot.

Soul isn't fazed. He laughs it off, making himself more comfortable at the table.

"I could bring out Blair," she singsongs.

"You _wouldn't_."

Life goes on - she works, reads, and spoils Blair, but it's inexplicably more interesting with Soul in it. There are things about Maka that he shouldn't know - for example, that she's worn pigtails since she was a little girl. He says they're childish and misleading because it makes her look innocent when in reality she can throw around sour looks like knives. What he doesn't know is that pigtails are an easy way to manage her hair because she knows five braiding styles, so no she won't stop wearing them, thank you very much.

But his reaction towards her ring is jarring.

A slow Sunday afternoon finds Maka absentmindedly playing with the ring attached to her necklace. She rarely takes it out when she's not at the home because of her fear of losing it, but she figures she can let her guard down while the bakery is empty and her mind is full of thoughts about Soul. It's not surprising that she thinks about him when she has no business doing so - he's always around, whether it's in person or not, but recently his visits are shorter and he seems distracted, far away.

That bothers Maka, too - distantly, of course, because she's putting up a good battle against her instinct to pry. He's a private person, reluctant to share and open up, but Maka thinks they can grow alongside one another if they let it happen.

Usually he's here by this time and she's beginning to wonder if he was a figment of her imagination when he strolls in.

She can't help but light up at the sight of him. "Oh, hi! I wasn't sure if you were going to come today - how was your morning?"

It's not that Soul doesn't hear her, it's that he catches sight of her necklace, of the ring. "Is that the wedding ring? You still got to keep it, after all?"

She's already stuffed it back underneath her shirt before he can take a step toward her. "Yeah…" The connection between her mouth and brain is jumbled, and she can't process thoughts correctly - why would she not have it? "What do you mean, Soul?"

At his usual table, he puts his chin in his palm and squints at her. "I don't know."

He doesn't offer any other explanation. Maka guesses there's nothing further for him to say anyway - she's never _not_ had the ring. Explaining that would mean she would have to open up like the sky during a thunderstorm, and she's not quite ready for that yet.

x

"Why are you always reading?"

Because she likes the escape. Because this is the first letter she's received from Blake since he left and she's read it fifteen times already, and she's not ready to stop. Because before Blake's letters, she read nothing but fairy tales where all lost things are found. That's all she wants most in life, so reading about it helps her cope.

And most of all, she reads because there's no one else to read to her. Her papa used to, Maka thinks, and she feels a little closer to him when she finishes a book.

But she doesn't say all that. She just stares at Soul, wondering why he looks fascinated.

He interprets her gaze differently. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! I wouldn't want you getting fired, you know, because you're reading on the job."

There's that far away fondness again, simmering deep inside her.

X

What seals her trust in Soul is the day everyone in town seemingly ends up at the bakery. It's unreasonably busy the day before a blizzard is forecasted to blanket the city in three feet of snow. Customers want their goods and they want them right _now_ because the world's ending. The bakery isn't equipped for many sit-in customers - not that any of them will hear it. When the bell above the door chimes, Maka turns to watch Soul strolling in and his mouth dropping when he sees his usual chair occupied by an older gentlemen reading the paper.

"I'm drowning," she cries to Soul softly as she passes by, holding two mugs of coffee in each hand. A line of disgruntled customers, dirty dishes, and a messy counter has Maka severely overwhelmed. She imagines Auntie facepalming, lamenting that she now has to help Maka land another job until she's of age and out on her own.

Soul stands there for a second while Maka takes more orders and apologizes to a woman because they're fresh out of almond flour. It's terribly chaotic, so there's no time to chide Soul for trespassing into the backroom. When he re-emerges without his burgundy coat on (he must have a lot of coats, and Maka wants all of them – not because she's cold, though) but with an apron tied around his waist, her mouth drops.

"You're not thinking of working, Soul."

"I am, actually," he drawls. This confidence is rare for Soul. The closer Maka looks, however, the more she's convinced this change in attitude isn't self-assurance at all. It's for _her_. He's rolling up his sleeves before she can protest again. She wonders briefly if he does the same before performing, if he loosens the top button of his shirt as a ritual.

Worries about this being a violation of the shop owner's trust pushed aside, she then replaces it with a hesitant trust in Soul's ability of bussing the tables. It doesn't require any skill outside of a basic sense of cleanliness, but at the same time, she's not sure he's ever had a lift a finger in his life. After all, the rich have entire armies staffed with maids and servants to wait on their every need.

She's stereotyping, she knows – she's bad, bad, _bad_.

By the end of the shift, however, the worst thing that happens is a mug breaks, and that's her fault. Soul had looked up to find her staring, flashed a genuine smile, and she had dropped the damned thing like it was burning her hands. Cleaning it and the fuzzies in her belly is an easy task, thank goodness, and no one got hurt.

"You're clumsy," Soul says when she's done counting the day's earnings, leaning against the counter, smirking lazily.

Maka wants to swat him away. "Shh, before I fire you."

"I'm not even getting paid. I should, though – oh, speaking of." He sticks his hand in his pocket and slaps down a few bills and change in front of her. "These are the tips I got. Thought you could use them."

"I couldn't! Those are yours, you worked for them!"

Soul shrugs. "I don't work here."

Part of Maka wants to be angry. Is he so well off that he's willing to give money to her without batting an eye? She's also touched that he thought of jumping in without being asked, and that's what she decides to trust - his earnest help. The best part of it all is that they leave the store together, a hard work's day done and Maka feeling a little bit closer to him. Soul has nothing to complain about because he's the one pushing _her_ out for a change, bellyaching that she works too much.

"But I wanted to clean the counter again," she protests, trying to dodge him.

His hands are gentle on her shoulders, turning her around and easing her out onto the snowy sidewalk. "Nope, I've already seen you wipe it down four times. And good God, please tell me you have a hat today. It's colder than the artic out here."

Maka shuts the door, taking her time to turn the knob and triple check that it's locked so she doesn't succumb to the shiver that's crawling down her spine. Throwing her scarf around her head and wearing it as a headwrap wouldn't be enough to shield her from the freezing blasts, and Soul wouldn't believe her even if she tried to say otherwise.

She rubs her hands together, turning to meet his gaze. Sometimes she feels like the color of his eyes change with his emotions, and that's why she hasn't been able to clearly pinpoint what shade they are. "Well, since I lost my hat, this scarf is all I have."

His brows knit together as he frowns and reaches to pull off his bomber hat, holding it out to her with a thoughtful look. Logically, there is no reason for Soul to offer it to her. Self-consciousness about his hair color has steered him toward collecting hats, but apparently, going without it is tolerable if it means she's warm. His kindness hurts. Maka could cry, if she let herself. The hat is lined with fur, probably real fur, and it's the most personal thing anyone's ever given up for her.

"Okay, but only if you walk me home so I can give it back," she says.

When he shakes his head, his hair glows in the moonlight. It reminds Maka of clouds moving across a dark sky. "I'll walk with you anyway, and you can keep it. Deal?"

"Deal." She trembles when she puts it on, reveling in its softness. "I hate losing things, so I promise never to lose this. Thank you so much, Soul."

"Don't mention it." He digs his hands further into his pockets, pursing his lips. "What else have you lost?"

Soul listens to her like her voice is a song while she leads the way. She's not sure how to explain that the temporariness of things breaks her heart - losing her hat, Blake, her memories, her parents. This isn't how she imagined her first time telling Soul about the art of losing, the two of them walking through slow snowfall, surrounded by the still night's darkness. Maka finds that no words fit her thoughts, so she tiptoes around the subject for twenty minutes until she drifts off into silence.

It's not until they're at the crosswalk where he returned her scarf that Soul speaks up. "Yeah, I think I get it. Music is temporary like that, too," he says, kicking at the snow piled in front of him. "It only exists for the second you play or listen to it. And then you have to play it again or write a new song."

Everything is temporary in some way. The more Soul talks, the less Maka feels safe. Even books are fleeting - the stories in them don't go on forever, but they bring her happiness, and that's nothing to regret. At least that's how Soul puts it, shrugging.

"I didn't know you were so deep," she teases while anxiety bubbles in her stomach. "I guess that's why you're always sulking."

"I don't _sulk_ , that's just how my face looks."

That's not true - she's seen him light up with pride in the bakery when he has breakthrough on his music - but she lets him win that minor disagreement. She has too much to think about and not enough space in her mind to sort everything out. He's right about the beauty of impermanence; he seems to understand how love can be fleeting, but he also has to understand that she can't bear to lose anything else.

She wishes she could hold on to her ring right now to make sure it's still there, that it's hanging around her neck, tucked safely inside her shirt.

When it's time, Maka points uphill to the three story high house in need of repairs, the one that looks forgotten and like it's being held up against all odds. The crooked sign hanging on the gate says it all: Shibusen City's Orphan Home. "I live over there. My room is in the attic."

There is neither pity nor judgment in Soul's eyes when he looks at her after taking in the scene, just honor at being shown a little bit of her life. "Yeah, and… and I guess that's why you aren't allowed to have a pet."

Maka grins. Who would have known she'd find someone who understood her at a job Auntie hand-picked for her? "Right. So Blair's going to stay with me all the time until I move out. Then she can stay in bed all day until I come home - wherever that may be."

At the sound of her name, the kitten pops her head out of Maka's oversized breast pocket and purrs at Soul, who cringes at the sight of her but marvels, "What a lucky cat. She'll never need anything else."

X

Libraries are the holiest of places. When the snow finally (temporarily) melts, a day's travel on a horse-drawn carriage, miles of walking, and braving gusts of snowflake filled winds is worth the trouble and more because the armchairs by the fireplace are the softest, most expensive things she's ever sat on. Every detail about the ordeal is a little piece of heaven, a treat to herself.

So when that serenity is interrupted by a rambunctious patron with an affinity for stomping around and slamming books onto the shelves, she's absolutely _livid_.

"Let's go, Blair," Maka whispers, wrapping her up in a scarf and gently putting her in the inside her coat, right in the breast pocket. "We're going to put a stop to this ridiculousness."

Following the sounds of impatient grunts and cabinets being pulled open violently isn't hard. When she rounds the corner, the first thing she sees is loose-leaf newspaper cuttings strewn over the floor and a figure with his back to her, bundled up in a heavy coat and cap.

She huffs, loud and clear. "Excuse me? May I have a word?"

Then Maka recognizes his eyes – they're _strange_ , and when she sees the white tufts sticking out from under the cap, she wishes she could cup his face and ask him if he ever smiles with his teeth showing.

"Oh," she breathes, resentment dissipating. "It's _you,_ Soul! What are you doing here?"

He gulps, hands flying into his slack pockets. "Maka! I could say the same to you… I've never seen you here before."

"Why are you throwing stuff around like a monkey?" she asks, taking a step forward. The neat freak in her can't stand the newspapers coating the floor. She stoops down and starts gathering them, trying to keep the pages in numerical order. "Hmm... these are about the revolution ten years ago. I didn't know you were interested in government!"

"I'm _not_ ," he says, his voice rough, snatching the newspapers out of her arms. Blair hisses, the sound mimicking the feeling rippling through Maka – hurt, rage, and confusion. In that second, all of his gentleness seems to have sharpened into something mean and closed off, and it's worse than being cold enough to freeze.

"Well, just keep it down," she says too harshly, restraining Blair so she doesn't jump out and claw Soul's face again, even if he deserves it.

He exhales, running his fingers underneath his cap until it falls off, his hair tousled and sticking out every which way. "Sorry. I'm just stressed – I came here to work on my music, but then I wandered over here and couldn't find something... I didn't mean to yell."

"I don't like being talked to like that, so don't do it again," she says, giving him a stern look, then smiles and takes his hand when he nods. "Don't be stressed. Come sit with Blair and me, we'll keep you company while you write!"

"...Uh, okay."

He looks down at their linked hands and seemingly forgets all about the newspapers once Maka helps him put them away, content to have company. Maka secretly hopes the lift in his mood is because of _her._ Sitting by the fire feels a little like home, with Blair napping in her lap and Soul sitting across from her, both looking up and smiling occasionally to each other. No one bothers them - not customers, not fans of his music.

After all, Soul Evans doesn't like attention - unless it's from Maka. She distantly knew this from the instances she had filled the down time at the bakery by reading a book. Every time she had opened the cover it was like he suddenly didn't want to concentrate on composing. He'd stare at her openly until she made several trips to serve him pastries and finally stayed to talk. Today is one of those times where he throws his hands above his head and outright stares at her until she can't ignore him anymore.

"Yes, Soul?" she asks, not looking up, keeping her laugh to herself.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading, obviously."

He puts his music aside and strolls over, splaying his fingers in front of the pages of her book. "I know, but - what are you reading?"

She bites down a smile and tries to swat his hand away. "Well, nothing right now, because your hairy knuckles are in the way."

"Blair's hairy, but you like _her_." His pout is adorable, but Maka would rather throw her book across the room than admit it.

"No one said I liked her better than you, Soul. Or my book for that matter."

He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks down. "I'm not jealous or anything, just bored. I'm so sick of being stuck on this song I'm writing... So, what're you reading?"

She takes the bait. "It's a collection of fairytales. I've read it about a million times, but I'm running out of things to read."

"Pfft - yeah, I noticed that you're always reading." Soul looks up at the ceiling and back at her a few times before settling his gaze on her. "Well, if you wanted… my family has a big reading room. You could come see it and borrow some books. Say, tomorrow?"

Maka notices how carefully he chooses his words. See _it_ , not him. Borrow _books_ , not spend time together outside of work. Friends shouldn't have to walk on eggshells around one another, shouldn't live in fear of rejection. She decides to make that very clear - it's only the right thing to do, though it feels like they've lived through this moment before.

"Want to be friends?" she asks, hand outstretched.

He hesitates, thick lashes cast a shadow beneath his eyes as he stares, contemplating. For a moment, Maka fears he'll snub her hand, deeming her too many tiers below his social circle to associate with. Wealthy bachelors don't mingle with stubborn, profoundly lost girls who don't have last names or pasts.

A distant worry softens his face. "I thought we already were friends?"

She smiles, hoping it's reassuring. "Now it's official."

One of the beautiful things about Soul is how he brightens up like he's never frowned in his life as he takes her hand; his is familiar, and warm. "Alright. I can't promise not to make you mad sometimes, though. It won't be perfect. But I'm right here."

Maka decides she could hug him forever, she really could - if she would let herself.

X

The Evans family mansion sits on the edge of town, on a secluded piece of well-maintained land. From afar it shines magnificently, and the closer the carriage brings them, the more its grandeur semi-triggers something that's been dormant in Maka's head. The orphanage is the only thing she's known, so the nostalgia that hits her at entering the fine house and seeing its ornate walls is clearly misplaced, though shaking off the feeling is nearly impossible. Even something about Soul waving away the servants who rush forward to help him shrug off his coat feels eerie.

The memory is right on the edge of the shadows, on the tip of her tongue.

She hates when things get stuck in the gap between real and not real.

Soul offers to hang her coat, but Maka shakes her head politely and asks to keep it on. She's cold, always cold. What she doesn't reveal is she feels partly out of place, that she doesn't belong among imported furniture and expensive vases. His clothes aren't worn to bare threads like hers are – _his_ don't sport holes or mismatched patches.

"I'd give you a tour, but this is pretty much it." He motions around unceremoniously. "There's a roof and six bedrooms and three bathrooms."

Though Soul practically stomps around as he leads her further into the house, Maka treads softly. Family portraits hang on the wall, held by heavy, detailed frames. She knows too well the family paid a pretty cent for these – probably more than she'd earn in a lifetime. Fighting off the feeling that she and Soul have no business being together is disheartening, especially when their footsteps echo into the loud silence of the hallways.

Of course, the house doesn't feel like a home. Its lavishness lacks human warmth.

No wonder Soul seeks refuge at the bakery.

"Well, here it is," Soul announces when they reach two tall double doors, throwing them open to reveal a circular room lined with shelves stacked with books. For a split second Maka can't remember where she is because this is like something out of a dream, and for a while she forgets that she and Soul are two people haphazardly cut from different cloths, forced to fit together.

Maka rushes forward, Blair meowing with excitement in her breast pocket. "There are so many books! I don't – oooh, where did you get all of them?"

"My mother and brother are both avid readers." Soul punctuates this fact with a feigned scoff. "A lot of these are theirs, but all of this is my family's collection - generations and generations worth of old, dumb books."

" _Wow_ ," she approves, nodding her head absentmindedly, touching the different colored spines. Now's not the time to feel the sting of wondering if _her_ family had anything similar, so she swallows thickly. "With all these books, why would you want to leave?"

Soul falls silent as Maka dives into reading the titles and gingerly pulling one by one off the shelf to admire, skimming the pages before exchanging it for another. Blair eventually jumps out of her coat and wanders over to Soul, who does everything from scowling to hissing to ward Blair away. Giggling at what Maka sees from her periphery – Soul standing on the leather armchair as an attempt to escape, Blair hopping up with a meow to join him – and smiling in response to Soul's indignant huff, Maka puts her current book down.

"She doesn't _bite_ , Soul." Blair purrs when Maka scoops her up, snuggling the kitten against her face. "See? She's an angel."

"Just keep her away from me," he mutters, adjusting his vest. "I haven't forgotten that she tried to scratch off my face."

Maka, ever the advocate for peace, holds Blair out at him like a newborn. "You can start off slow. Just pet her on the head, she likes that."

First Soul gives Blair a look like he's smelled something awful, but he glances at Maka once and softens a bit, the tension in his shoulders easing. He takes a deep breath before saying too fast, "So I have to confess I'm kind of allergic to cats-"

Something like a half-cry, half-screech escapes from Maka's mouth, making Blair flinch and kick her legs like she's trying to run away midair. "I thought you were afraid of her!"

"No! I mean, it's alright – I broke out in a rash where it scratched me, and -"

Mortification infiltrates Maka, who holds Blair close. An inhuman noise creaks out of her, regret makes her want to sink through the floor, and she's caught between choosing two of her favorite things in the world. The idea that Soul's on the same level as cuddly Blair is jarring.

Meanwhile, Soul is doing that thing he does when he's nervous: talking without making sense. "I think I'm fine as long as it doesn't touch me or look like it wants to touch me."

"You should have told me, Soul!"

"It's always around, though! If I had told you, we'd never see each other."

"She's not an inanimate object, don't call her 'it'."

Maka can't help but linger on his word choice. The aloof, mysterious Soul she first met would have never admitted that he wanted to hang out, and Maka would have thought 'thank _goodness_ they won't have to cross paths anymore, what a relief, a blessing'. But now he's expressing fear of never connecting, and Maka can't quite explain why it excites her so thoroughly. She tries to bury that joy and the smile tugging at her lips with partial success.

She clears her throat, smirking at him. "… So you admit you like having me around?

If Soul was flustered before, now it's ten-times intensified: he grabs at the lapels of his vest and straightens himself to his full height like a soldier committed to stoniness. "Shouldn't you be reading?"

She sticks out her tongue. "I can multi-task."

He tries to shrug it off. "I mean, I guess girls have to learn to do that, since being a wife is all sorts of multi-tasking."

It's like a brick hitting her in the face out of nowhere. She's not sure what to address first - the idiotic insinuation that women are trained to be wives and nothing else, or the other veiled remark that she's supposed to be married, like it's the pinnacle of life. Trying to get him to unlearn these atrocities will be the death of her - _he_ will be the death of her.

Not blowing up is the hardest thing she's ever had to do. "I'm barely seventeen! I still live at the home. I'm not married. You thought I was _married_?"

Soul is redder than a sunburn, waving wildly. "I saw your ring and I just thought, lots of people get engaged when they're fourteen and stuff because of pre-arranged marriages their parents set up – okay, maybe your parents didn't do that to you, but Auntie could have?" He interrupts himself to curse under his breath, knowing he's digging himself a deeper grave. "Why are you so mad about the married thing? I'm sorry I offended you – I think?"

Maka puffs her cheeks out, determined not to giggle at the fact that the last bit of his frantic apology came out in a high-pitched squeak. "What's that mean? How old do I look to you?"

"No matter how I answer you're going to throw a book at me, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Saying her fingers weren't already twitching to reach for the nearest text book would be a lie.

He holds out a protective hand for a few more seconds before deciding he's safe. "So you're not married or engaged. My mistake." Hands in his pocket, he scowls embarrassedly, muttering, "I should've known… who'd wanna marry a loud, short, angry thing like you?"

That comment _does_ earn him a dirty look. " _Just_ when I thought you were decent, you go and say things like that. I bet you're not married, either."

Two things happen: his mouth opens to retort, and his eyes go wide with something like fear. And then he's wearing his stoic face again. "No one could put up with me."

"I bet," she says, though not harshly. There is something else swimming in his expression, and since she hasn't seen it before on him, she can't begin to fathom what it could be. "Wait, so you're old enough to be married?"

He tugs on his cap again, covering his head. "My hair's white but I'm not _that_ old. My nineteenth birthday was two weeks ago, the day before the blizzard."

Feelings rush through Maka, too many of them. "Oh… but… Don't tell me it was the day you were working with me at the bakery…" The guilty look he gives her says it all, and her voice goes up a few octaves: " _Soul_! You should have been with your family-"

"My brother lives in New York." He shrugs it off like it's nothing, though his demeanor says otherwise. The surliness practically radiates off him. "And I'm getting enough of my parent's attention recently as it is. Besides, hanging out with you isn't too bad."

He's still standing on the armchair like he's on a lifeboat staring at the endless sea, stranded. Maka bends over to let Blair run around before she walks toward him, holding out her hand to help him down. Little pinpricks of excitement buzz on her fingertips when he takes it, when he brightens up as she says, "I like spending time with you, too."


	3. I'll follow you anywhere

"Are your eyes _really_ that color?"

He gives her a sidelong look. "...Yeah. Are yours?"

"Of course," she says, having never thought someone could be confused by the green of her irises. Maybe he can't quite put a name to their color, but that's hard to fathom for Maka. It's not that she's _not_ beautiful, but everything pales in comparison to Soul, who is more ethereal the more Maka reaches out to touch him. No matter how long she stares into his eyes, she can't quite come up with a shade to describe them.

Beside her, Soul breaks out in a shiver, standing up. The urge to reach for him and pull him back down next to her on the bench is overwhelming, desperate even, but he holds a hand out to her before she can rationalize her panic. "Ready to go inside?"

She takes it, of course. She'd be foolish not to. After all, it's warm wherever Soul is, even when they've just spent the last half hour in his family's backyard snow-blanketed garden, imagining what the flowers would look like if they were there. In the spring they'll have a picnic out here, he's promised her, and Maka can't help but want to skip forward a few months.

"I bet Blair's running around in the house like a banshee. We could see what she's up to, and maybe drink some hot chocolate and hang out in the reading room?"

The hesitancy in his voice hurts Maka. Between wishing she weren't wearing mittens so that they would be able to touch skin to skin, and wanting to say they don't need an excuse to be together, she feels lightheaded.

But maybe that's just because they hold hands a lot now.

X

Maka feels like she's been waiting for life to start. When she's older, she always thought, she'd have a family, find out her real name – even have two names, a first and last. Funny how finding the right person can remind her she's complete without those things.

Soul teases her about the face she makes when she concentrates too hard, is self-conscious about his dimple, diverts Blair's advances by gently nudging her away with his foot, and lets Maka borrow his coat when hers is caught in a door and finally rips. He gives her the blue one with a big inside breast pocket Blair can ride in. It's warm like the blooming feeling in Maka's chest whenever they make eye contact, or when she thinks of him as she turns the pages of a book before bedtime.

What Maka can't do is return his kindness. When she's done worrying that these acts of kindness might be pity and accepts them as tokens of friendship, she searches for things she can do in return and comes up with nothing. Sure, she bakes him goods, but he pays for them in the end, even if she throws in extra muffins or slices of cake. Not to think too highly of herself, but keeping him company is something, right?

He seems less lonely. Whenever he's deep into his music, she thinks he sits up a little straighter, doesn't hide his smile as often. But it could all be in her head. After all, it's not like he only exists when he's with her. He has a life she doesn't know about because she doesn't understand it - _music_.

"When I'm done composing all this music, I have to go back to travelling for my tour," he says one day when they're taking a fifteen minute break from work, his music pushed aside and Maka taking off her apron to sit across from him.

"Oh," is all she says. A voice in the back of her head murmurs that she should have known he'd leave just as he arrived months ago: out of nowhere, quietly and suddenly. She's been so focused on getting closer to him that she'd almost forgotten everything is temporary.

It must be her memory loss. She can only focus on one thing at a time.

She hadn't thought of the fact that he's a musician, a _traveling_ one only here on an intermission. It's been in the back of her head, waiting to be confronted. But none of this means she has to cry about the possibility of him leaving. She'd probably be able to write him letters like she does with Blake.

Still, her eyes go glassy at the thought. Just when the ice between them has finally melted, he's warning her that their time together will come to an end. It makes sense, though - hadn't Soul said he was just passing by?

"I have a ball that I play at overseas, and some other family stuff that's coming up soon, so I might not be able to hang out here as much," he goes on, apparently unwilling to meet her eyes. "But that's not for a while. I'd rather stay here with you, honestly…"

She doesn't want to let go either. "Maybe I can help you with your music? I don't know how to read it, but I could definitely listen to it!"

He laughs in a way that isn't funny. "Trust me, my music isn't anything special. I wouldn't want to make you suffer through it."

It _is_ special and important if he makes it, but Maka knows she can't say that without receiving a prompt rebuttal from him, without starting an argument, so she drinks her coffee and looks at him over the rim of her mug, feeling like a kicked kitten. Now she knows how hard it is for Blair, nudged away at the slightest sign of wanting to be closer.

X

Sometimes Maka thinks she's hit a dead-end with Soul. A roadblock. There's something keeping them from one another emotionally, and it's so palpable Maka wants to reach into the physical space between herself and Soul to push it aside.

The small shift in their relationship has her reaching for her ring more and more. The comfort it grants is temporary, but it's something at least - it's more like she has a nervous twitch, mindlessly taking it out and rubbing it between her fingers to feel its realness, putting it on and taking it off without knowing. What's ironic is that Soul notices this habit of hers before she does.

"You'll break it somehow," he says softly, putting his hand over hers. Maka, so engrossed in twirling the ring around, hadn't even been brought out of her hypnotized state by the bells above the door chiming his entrance, but his sudden closeness does the trick.

She manages a relieved smile, taking in her surroundings: the bakery, the smell of bread in the air.

"It looks like it might be real gold," Soul is saying, interrupting himself to whistle lowly. "And it's a cool design. You could probably get a decent amount of money for it."

"No!" The objection comes out too loudly. It makes Soul jump and Maka feels sorry she wiped the amazement off his face – it looked beautiful. _He_ looked beautiful.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't mean to offend you. Ah, I know you worry about money, since you have to move out when you're of age…"

She winces. "I appreciate your concern, really, but…"

Running her fingers around her neck until she clutches a thin gold chain, she pulls it out from its hiding place under her shirt. Soul unpockets his hands as if to help unclasp it, instead squinting as Maka expertly does it herself and secures the ring on the chain. She holds it up to him and it catches the light and glimmers quietly, and when he reaches forward to touch it, she snatches it away before he can blink.

No mirrors are needed to tell Maka her eyes are opened as wide as they feel and that the tip of her nose is turning red like it does when she's on the verge of some extreme emotion.

"This was my mother's, I think," she says hesitantly, breaking eye contact and looking at the ring cupped in her palm, then at the floor.

He is quiet.

"I've always had it." Once the necklace is around her neck again and the ring is tucked next to her heart where it belongs, she goes on, "I feel like one day it'll help me find my parents. So I'm never going to sell it or lose it."

Maka appreciates his silence most of all, but sometimes she wishes he'd say more, _do_ more. A hug wouldn't hurt right now. They're close enough friends now that it wouldn't be awkward, but Soul can't wrap his arms around her if his hands are hiding in his pockets. Actually, the more Maka thinks, the more she realizes he's always masking himself in some way - throwing his forearms over his music when someone approaches, refusing to play for her, covering his dimple, and never talking about his life outside of their relationship.

It's like he's purposely keeping a part of himself in her periphery, and too many things lurk there as it is. Maka quietly burns with the injustice of it all - she wishes he could bleed out for her, because there's something obviously keeping them apart, but she can learn to be patient.

X

When Soul stares at her openly, she can't help that her skin buzzes.

"You're… going to walk me home?"

"Mhm, that's what I just said."

One of his brows shoots up, brazen and playful. "I live kinda far."

"I _know_ , I've been to your house before." Tightening her scarf before holding her hand out, she dares to continue, trying her best to sound casual. "I feel like I haven't seen you a lot lately, that's all. I want to spend more time with you."

They're growing closer by the day despite his lack of presence lately. Some days, he leaves the bakery early instead of setting up camp until close, his disappearances unexplained, his absences loud while Maka goes through her day without someone to talk to.

If she were braver, she'd ask why he seems to be slipping away, but she's not one to ask for answers she might not like. She has speculated on her own, anyway. Strangers must think it's bizarre seeing them together - a renowned composer wearing polished shoes and the air of aristocracy, and a short-tempered girl with mismatching mittens and frayed, faded scarf. She hopes his distance isn't because of their different social classes - but Soul isn't like that, is he? As he's fond of saying, it's the soul that matters.

Either way, it's like he's right there, behind some silk translucent curtain, and all she has to do is find the edge of the curtain and put it aside and they could be together in every sense of the word. He's so close but so far, and she has every intention to shorten that space between them, even if it takes years.

Maybe he's trying to reach her, too, because he slides his fingers between hers, allowing her to lead the way to his family's house, flashing a grin at her. "I'm right here, aren't I?"

And she's infinitely glad for that.

Sometimes, though - sometimes she thinks that she's missing something about him and that's why she doesn't completely understand him yet. There's a faint melancholy when she and Soul make themselves dinner that evening because his parents are out on business, and there's something slightly _off_ about the family portraits that hang on the walls.

As the days go by, Maka compensates by filling up Soul's house with laughter and the smell of baked goods, with quick reassuring words and warm silences, but there is always something false about Soul when his fans want to talk about his music. It's just something that flickers, something that Maka only ever sees out of the corner of her eye when Soul doesn't think she's looking.

They're always pretending not to stare at each other. It floods her with heat. What does he see in her?

Soul has lots of rooms inside of him. Most of the doors are wide open and ready for her to walk in and look at what's inside, but some are locked, boarded up, off-limits. Maka's growing desperation to be let in has her imagining how much pleading it would take and if sledgehammers would be enough to break through. That would be a breach of their trust and she won't do it, but it's just not fair. She only wants to be there for him. It doesn't make sense that he's anguishing in silence when she's right beside him.

So, Maka spends a lot of time in the Evans's reading room even when she's done reading most of the books there. It's not her home but Soul is there and that's all that matters, just Soul, so sometimes, when she can't read him, it terrifies her. She doesn't want it to come across like he's made of glass, because he's solid and real and that's not the only reason she's always around, but Maka worries.

She wishes more than anything that Soul would tell her how to _help_ him, how to make everything okay.

But most of the time, though - most of the time, when he catches her looking, he melts into a smile and she feels his warmth from across the room.

X

"I only play at concerts and in empty music halls when I practice," is Soul's mechanical reply when she asks to hear his piano playing. There's a lull between customers at the bakery and she had thought it would be a good idea to wander over and keep him company, but now her heart is shattering and she wants to retreat.

Quitting isn't her style, though.

"Exactly." Maka taps her temple and winks at him, determined to be optimistic. "I've solved the problem. I'll just go along with you when you practice."

Soul doesn't even pretend to think about it. "No."

The response only hurts Maka a little because she doesn't let it kill completely her. She touches his shoulder like she's afraid he might slip away. "Soul, I know playing in front of people makes you nervous, but I'll close my eyes-"

"Oh - what? I've never told you that. I'm not _afraid_ , I just don't… don't like it. It makes me so nervous I want to die."

Despite her efforts to keep him close, he _does_ shy away from her just enough for her hand to fall back to her side. His eyes go wide and in that moment she almost remembers what gem his eyes remind her of before he glances at the floor. "See, when I was younger, I was playing at this ball…"

She holds her breath, nodding in encouragement even though he can't see her. He's speaking so softly she might not hear what he has to say, and if she speaks he might change his mind and stop talking.

He sighs, closing his eyes the way someone does when they're holding in pain. "I was playing at this ball, and I was so wrapped up in trying to make everything perfect that I didn't notice… didn't notice a disturbance, and people started screaming."

"And you thought it was because of your music," she gasps, hand flying to her mouth. It makes sense, even though it shouldn't - she can see an overbright party turning grey and scary in her mind's eye, and a boy sitting at a piano like in her dream, and soon that all fades away into something she can barely remember, something unreal and fleeting.

Soul still won't look at her. Instead, he picks up his fountain pen and stares at his music without seeing it. "Uhm… see, that's why even if you did close your eyes, it wouldn't work. You'd have to cover your ears, too, so you won't start screaming. But then there would be no point, would there?"

She wants cry. She could get angry because she doesn't deserve to be pushed aside like a nuisance, but she doesn't. There's no energy left to argue. "Maybe one day?"

He _does_ think this time, like he's considering opening up to her. "One day."

X

There's always a song playing in her head, even if Soul doesn't play for her. It's a lovely song, light and magical, like a lullaby. She hears it in her dreams. Maybe one day she can hum it and Soul can transcribe it - he's a good listener like that, even when she doesn't say much.

"C'mere," he says one evening when they're in his family's living room, Soul sprawled on the floor on his tummy with his music spread out in front of him while she's cozy in the arm chair. "Bring the book too, because you've been staring at the same page for the past thirty minutes."

She blinks at him, sleep in her eyes. "I thought you hated books?"

"I never said that, Maka," he laughs, beckoning her over. "You look like you're in pain though, trying to keep your eyes open. So… c'mere. Let me read to you."

So Maka's suspicions had been right - he _had_ been staring, and she's _not_ crazy. Lately, her mind's been crowded with too many thoughts, most of them about Soul, so it's only right he help clear some space in her head. Heart bumping loudly, she scoots next to him, gently bopping his head with the red covered book before opening it to the page she was on.

Soul clears his throat as Maka intercepts Blair on her way to jump on him, holding her close.

"In a land far, far away," he reads, narrowing his eyes. He sighs, thumbing through the pages for another one. "Princess stories are all the same - someone falls in love and someone has to die for them to be together. It's depressing. "

"Make one up then," she insists, just trying to keep him talking. Light from the crackling fireplace submerges him in brightness, his eyes warm and dark.

"There _is_ a story I've been wanting to tell you…"

Exhausted, she folds her hands and rests her head on them, already dozing off.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl named…" His gaze falls on her lazily, chin in his palm. "Maka. Her name was Maka. And she had a last name, too, but I'm getting to that part…"

She closes her eyes - if she doesn't, he might see that she's close to crying, and she's not ready for that yet. All she's ever wanted was a last name, and that's exactly what he's given her. How had he known? It must be the musician in him. Hadn't he said he could read people really well?

If only she could read as well as he does.

X

Thank goodness that whenever Soul leaves, it's never completely.

They're standing in front of the orphanage two days later, having just walked through snow flurries hand-in-hand, no gloves on either of them so they were as close as they could be.

"Promise you'll be back?"

"I'll be back in a week or so," he reassures.

It's a spur-of-the-moment business trip brought on by his father, Soul had explained briefly. Something about his piano playing. Between feeling touched that he even pet Blair goodbye, and simmering in anger that he never opens up all the way, Maka is at a loss. She can't look at him. Her eyes feel glassy, and she can't let Soul see that.

"I want you to play for me when you get back. And I want to travel, too," Maka says. What she doesn't add is, " _With you_."

Soul looks thoughtful as he squeezes her hand before he lets go. "I'll see you in a few days."

And then he walks away, hands delved deep into his pockets, leaving footprints in the snow. Maka looks at them from her window as she pets a snuggly Blair, nursing a cup of tea that lessens the sinking feeling in her chest. She thinks long and hard, but nothing comes to her except that she wishes she could go with Soul.

Maybe she _does._ Maka thinks about him constantly, so it's reasonable to think he does the same. He's a hum in the back of her head, the sound of his voice clinging to her like static. She doesn't have to ask him to come back because he's always around, a pulsing hymn under her skin.

She tries not to miss him.

x

At night she reads until she falls asleep, and it's only then that all the memories that never stay become clear.

Once upon a time, she had a family, and it wasn't perfect. Like Soul's.

Papa treated her like a princess - and Mama too, to an extent. Long, flowy dresses made her look like a queen, he'd tell Mama. Apparently all women were like royalty to him because he came home smelling like sweet perfume every day and confessed after a short argument that he was weak, and Mama cried and yelled and…

Little Maka had trembled with tears too, because her parents were being torn apart by Papa's lying and cheating.

The new dream is awful enough to lose sleep over. Maka stays awake to avoid reliving it - she prefers the other one, where there was a boy she liked to dance with at a party just for her. She misses the ball like she misses Soul, who's never in her dreams but should be because for once she doesn't want to live in the past. There's a future with Soul, and she'd like a sneak peek at it.

But maybe it's for the best that he's not there. After all, anything Maka remembers when she wakes is short lived and incomplete. Maybe she's been thinking too much about how miserable Soul looks when he mentions his family and that's why she's been remembering more about Mama and Papa.

Soul's frown reminds her of Mama's. Yes, Maka vaguely remembers how Papa hurt her mama, but who's hurting Soul?

The new dreams fit, but at the same time, they don't - she thinks she and her parents were happy together, almost, but at least all three of them were together. It seems like Soul's family doesn't have any of those things. He's the odd one out, with only one dimple, with a shy demeanor, with one corner of his mouth hiking higher than the other when he smiles. He's always by himself when he's with Maka.

"Ever since my brother Wes moved out, I've been alone. Until I met you, of course," he had told her, shrugging.

But Maka hadn't told him anything about Blake or her parents then and hasn't yet. She's not ready.

At least Maka has some things from her childhood she knows are real. There were toys in that room she wasn't allowed out of when she lived with Mama and Papa, and blanket forts, and shelves that overflowed with books, and a door Maka wasn't allowed to open. Focusing on those only reminds her of Soul and all the doors inside of him and his house.

"People are complicated," he'd told her when she asked why his parents were never around.

"I don't mind," he'd say after she pried.

She sits at Soul's favorite table during her breaks and thinks too much - thinks about him constantly, even in her daydreams where she can sometimes see all of him. His insecurities, wishes, wants, passions. She imagines the doors inside him are ajar, waiting. There's a distant song drifting from within, just for _her_ , and the irony that she's too afraid to go inside doesn't escape her.

It boils down to this: he's always there when he's not around, and that type of permanence isn't something Maka is used to.

X

Soul doesn't stop by the bakery the day after he says he's supposed to come back into town. Or the next. Or the day after that, or a week from Tuesday, or the day following. Wednesdays are the worst, he explains on Thursday when he follows up a desperate "I missed you" with his order: black coffee, as always, and a chocolate glazed donut. He rubs sleep away from his eyes as she glows and confesses she thought about him a lot - where had he disappeared to?

"Got held up at the stupid thing with my old man," he says with a shrug.

She laughs. "That's the vaguest story I've ever heard."

"Because I have no words to describe how torturous it was. I'm lucky to be back so soon. My dad and An-" Hand flying to his mouth, he covers the blunder up by coughing into a fist, but Maka's quicker than he is and leans forward, a brow raised.

"Not smooth enough," she teases. "Your dad and who?"

"The devil. No one important," he says a little too quickly, clearing his throat noisily.

"My, you have quite an impressive range of family friends." Maka shifts her weight onto one leg and rests a hand on her hip. "Could it be that you've made a deal with the devil?"

"That's a great way to describe it, actually," he says, rolling his eyes. "My dad _and_ my mom have lost the few marbles they had left. Sometimes I hate being their son."

This beginning of what feels to be a spiteful rant against his parents doesn't settle well with Maka, who is a collection of bittersweet 'almosts' - almost remembers her surname, almost recalls her parents' faces, almost remembers what it was like to be held by Mama, and almost hears her papa reading to her. At least she remembers the exact shade of their hair color, even if she's never thought of putting a name to it.

It's not fair. She'd do almost anything to have her parents back, and here Soul is, complaining about his.

"Sounds like you should be more grateful," she interrupts.

He scowls. "They're just looking out for themselves."

"Melodramatic baby," she disapproves, shaking her head. "I'm sure they have your best interest in mind-"

He laughs, bitterly. It doesn't make her skin tingle like it usually does. In fact, she's disgusted with his attitude and lack of appreciation for who should be important, respected people in his life. It partly makes her blood boil. The other more sensible side of her, however, just wants to help.

Maka scans the bakery to make sure it's empty of customers before reaching behind her back to undo the knot holding the apron around her waist. "Is there something I can help with? We can brainstorm together-"

Soul puts his hand out so fast to stop her that her heart skips a few beats, like it's just experienced whiplash. "No, it's okay. I think I have it under control…"

There he goes again, going cold, not letting her in too deep.

But at least she has a foot in the door. She thinks.

X

Maka wonders if Soul thinks about her when he goes quiet. He does that a lot now, falling silent and openly looking at her as she works. She can't read his expression because she can't look back at him too long - it makes a pleasant shiver roll down her spine.

x

While it's true that the world is full of temporary things, Soul isn't one of those. He's a feeling.

There might be instances where he fills her with so much rage she thinks she could scream like a teakettle, but even those are precious because they're all because of _Soul_ and there's something divine about how well they fit together. There is a cozy trust between them, even if certain spots have gaps, but they're closing those rapidly every time he walks her home and goes out of his way to lowkey give a helping hand at the bakery.

And then there's his grin. It's becoming less rare, especially when she reaches out to find his hand.

Their relationship isn't _perfect_. Maka knows that he has walls built around him just like she knows she can't bulldoze right through them, that losing those calls for unconditional love and time - nothing but time together.

Soul seems to know this too, because when three days go by without seeing each other, he materializes in the bakery wearing red on his cheeks. Whether the pigment is from the howling wind or what he says next, she doesn't know.

"Do you want to go with me to a symphony?" he asks without preamble.

Hands caught midair as she puts away a freshly decorated cake, Maka suddenly becomes a statue. "I'm sorry?"

He practically runs right up to the counter, a shy smile on his face, breathless. "Well… you get off work soon, right? Do you want to go to the symphony with me?"

A variety of thoughts and emotion flash-flood through her: she's never been to a music hall, she can't afford it, this is long-awaited but so sudden, and more importantly, where has he been? Articulating the words is nothing less than a failure, because what ends up coming out of her mouth is, "I missed you."

He's thrown off guard a little, blinking as if surprised at what he heard. But it must be one of his happy-go-lucky days, because he grins like he's heard the best news in his life and he doesn't bother to hide his dimple. "Me too. So I thought - we could go to the symphony together. I'm not going to be playing in it, of course, and we're a little late, but… Do you want to go?"

Maka's never heard _any_ symphony of any kind, so this only highlights how starkly different their lives are, and it makes Maka search for his hand when they are sitting in the concert hall's darkness a few hours later. She holds on tightly, in case they're torn apart. It's like being at his house for the first time all over again - the high ceilings and palace-like architecture dislodges something that's been buried deep within herself, a feeling of having lived like this before, but the memory diminishes as it bobs to the surface.

She can almost hear that song again, the one the boy played for her in her dreams, in another life. It's almost real, wafting through her head distantly.

The throb radiating from her right temple almost has her seeing red. Focusing on the cluster of musicians on stage is almost impossible, and nothing but closing her eyes grants her some sort of reprieve. At least she can focus on the different parts of the music - its violins sing sweetly at times, the assortment of woodwinds hums over the brass, and the piano is what she hears most of all, moving so slowly it pulls at her heartstrings, stretching them beyond their limit.

Leaving the hall is blinding - thank goodness Soul leads the way, fingers laced between hers. She uses her free hand as a canopy to shield her eyes while they adjust to the light, squinting at her surroundings until Soul comes into sight, Soul and his proud smile.

"What'd you think?" he asks.

She can't lie, because that would be a violation of their trust. The minute they found seats she didn't see a thing because her head started spinning from the deja-vu of it all, but she heard it at least, and that's all that matters. It was like sitting in the nothingness of her mind, being drenched by music, by the ups and downs of it and the harmonies that could exist if she let them - if that makes sense.

Apparently it does to him, because he's nodding, gently guiding her down the sidewalk.

"Want to know something?" he says a few silences later. "That music - I wrote it."

It doesn't click at first, doesn't fit. The Soul she knows isn't a musician first - he's a sheepish, tender-hearted softie hiding behind a nonchalant disguise. But then the thoughts in her head shift until they fit perfectly and all too suddenly his outlandish behaviour about going the outing

"You're so _sneaky_ , Soul Evans!" Maka could punch him, she really could - actually, forget restraining herself. Her lax right fist makes a soft contact with his shoulder, more like a pat than anything else. She makes sure to sculpt her mouth into a mild pout to convey her displeasure.

"I've been so busy avoiding my parents I forgot the Shibusen symphony was playing it, but - did you really like it?"

"Of course I did, Soul," she laughs, squeezing his hand. Elation swells in her chest and for a second she's afraid her ribs and sternum won't be able to expand to contain it. But then again, why should she be afraid of showing so much emotion, especially when he just showed her something so precious he couldn't tell her until after?

Maka wants to say something else, something about how his eyes are like rubies and how in this light the darkness in them is mesmerizing, that she's sorry for staring too long and too much.

But the thought fades, and all that's left in her head is that he's looking at her like he has too many things left to say.

X

Of all the people she's lost, Soul will be her favorite.

Since she's met him, she's been hooked on music she has yet to hear and that steady warm feeling that's permanently inside her now because she's completely, wildly, fervently, _constantly_ thinking of him. Nothing can compare to the slightest graze of his hand on her shoulder that sets her skin on fire for days, to the fever-like heat he kindles on her cheeks.

She feels faint when he's near; there is no space big enough for how he makes her feel – rage and admiration and everything in between. It's all there, rumbling just beneath the surface.

Maka promises to hold on to the lightning in her blood when he eventually leaves. The art of losing is beautiful like that. She keeps her feelings censored and subdued, holding them close like most terrible secrets are to be kept: in the dark, away from those who might be hurt. She breaks her own heart, but the signs of their goodbye are all there – she knows, because losing is an art.

The days he doesn't stop by the bakery aren't the tell-tale signs, although the visible decline in his mood when he does visit is a bad omen. Part of her wants to ask if he's happy composing so much, if he's happier when he's _not_ home where he's constantly reminded of being second-best because he was born after his brother, who Soul idolizes but claims he can't measure up to.

To Maka, it's evident that Soul is a prodigy - at his young age, he's composing music scores for symphonies and stands out as a prominent name in the music world. He has nothing to do stuck in this grimy town where it snows all the time. Even if he's said that she's the reason he's staying and doesn't run away, she doesn't want to contribute to his downswings.

Maybe it's better if she stop whatever it is they're doing.

After all, the best way to avoid losing something is to purposely let go.

It's written all over his body language when they meet up for brunch on her day off a week later. He doesn't stand tall, doesn't brighten up like he usually does. There is a lag in his step. Melancholy radiates off him, and he barely touches the blueberry muffin she orders for him. He looks like he's been awake for two weeks. It feels like they're teetering on the edge of goodbye, and her throat is swollen with phantom tears she can't afford let loose right now.

"So," Soul starts after clearing his throat. "There's this thing in America I play at every year. A ball. I have to go… so you won't be seeing me for a while."

"Oh." It's the most heartbreaking syllable she's ever whispered. She feels like she's been kicked in the gut. "Right, right. I remember you mentioning that…"

Apparently, Soul isn't done. He shifts, tugging on his cap. "Yeah. I'll be there a few months. My brother lives in New York and he's coming out of musical retirement so we can play a few shows together."

She must be brave, must be like a doll: smiling at nothing, seemingly happy with anything that comes her way. "I see."

"Usually I go alone."

The unsaid words are ringing in her ears. "But…"

"Uh, but…" His Adam's apple bobbles as he gulps. "I'm going to leave a month earlier than I usually do, and I also have an extra ticket this time. And since you're turning eighteen soon, and you'll be out on your own…"

Maka can't quite remember how to think. The moment isn't unfolding like she imagined. None of the people who left before said anything like this. Except for Blake, whose letters never fail to arrive every Wednesday, no one else has existed after their departure. And now Soul's going on to explain that he was alone until he met her, that she's his best friend and sharing the experience with her would be nothing less than a privilege.

"And I've got your expenses covered, since the person who was going with me, uh, isn't anymore. You said you wanted to travel, so I thought…" He pauses to take a sip of heavily creamed coffee. "I thought you'd like to come with me. As friends."

"Right," she echoes, nodding mechanically. She's been grabbing her left wrist so tightly it's throbbing, but coordinating her hands to reach for the ring seems impossible. "As friends."

Something like anguish flits across his face. "… I'm coming back, so if you can't come along... We'll see each other again. If that's what you want."

That's the problem. Maka wants a lot, but she's not sure she can trust herself to choose what she wants over what she needs. She needs Soul like she needs a good night's sleep – he's necessary, irreplaceable, and she could learn to be without him, but he's already ingrained himself in her everyday life. It's not fair. The offer to go with a loved one has never been presented to her.

But of course, the decision isn't hard to make.

She reaches out to rest her hand on his. "I'll follow you anywhere."

That's when she decides she could kiss him, she really could. He breaks into one of those precious grins that are only meant for her, dimple and all, and her heart does a cartwheel; his excitement is contagious and she wants to feel it against her lips. She bets his mouth would be warm and feel like home. Maybe that's why she hasn't found a place to belong yet.

Soul seems to breathe easier, relieved. Even that makes her blood pound in her ears. "We leave tomorrow at six!"

She balks. "Six? Tomorrow? In the morning?"

He puts on a sheepish look. "I've been too nervous to ask you until now."

Maka is too soft. Her cheeks hurt from smiling and her head aches with all the confusing thoughts swirling around in there, and now she's tearing up, hiccuping. Happiness tends to lead to unprocessed sorrow, she's found. It's the accumulation of grief from a forgotten childhood. Never did she think he'd find someone who wanted to stick around - it does something to her, and she's doing her best to hold back her emotions.

"Promise we'll be together the whole time?"

"God, yeah," he says in a desperate kind of way. "I can't promise that it'll be perfect, but I can promise to always be there."

"And you'll finally let me hear your piano playing?"

He's hesitant, but at least his response is a step in the right direction: "Yeah, you're going to have to, since I'm taking you to the ball. I'll play for you then... but only if you keep your eyes open the whole time."

Whether they're still talking about the ball or listening to his music is fuzzy, but Maka doesn't care. Soul cups her cheek with his other hand and all her worries soften like candle wax. Soul is fire, she should have known. That's why the skin he touches burns even when he's not near.

Hopefully he'll always be around to set her ablaze.


	4. Closeness they've been missing

They make eye contact early the next morning as the train whistles and shakes to life, as Maka races toward him, as the sky overhead bleeds amber. She fleetingly thinks of a name to the color of his eyes between calling out his name and thinking he looked lonely waiting for her. Soul heaves his suitcase into the moving train before leaping on, fingers curled around the railing as he leans out and offers Maka his hand to help her climb aboard.

It's the in-betweens that haunt Maka, the almosts. This time is no different. Their fingertips barely graze right as the train picks up speed, and for a second she doesn't think she'll be able to bridge the gap between them. She can't breathe anymore, can't make her legs go faster. But then his grip is around her wrist, _tight_. The world is a whirlwind as she feels herself being lifted, her hair whipping around crazily.

And then, as he's pulling her to her feet, Maka loses her balance, and suddenly she's holding onto him for dear life, vowing never to let go. It's not until her blood and fear settles that she realizes their faces are too close.

No matter how much they stare, it's never enough.

Maka is about to kiss him then, because maybe _this_ is the way into Soul, maybe _this_ isthe type of closeness they've been missing all this time; she puts her hands on his shoulders, stands on her tippy toes, looks into his eyes (they're dark in this light)... and then the train whistles, a piercing, insistent shrill.

Soul regains his cool first.

"You made it," he breathes, pulling away. His arms spring out like he wants to hug her, but he thinks twice about it and instead slides the door shut. His eyes are still ablaze when he looks back at her, making Maka's thoughts even more fuzzy from the adrenaline rush.

"Auntie almost didn't let me go," she explains between pants to catch her breath. "Because I'm not eighteen yet – my birthday's in four months."

What she doesn't add in is that she almost missed the train because she was writing to Blake about where she's going, that she'll keep him updated but won't have an address for him to respond. That she cried too much to sleep, both afraid and giddy for the future.

Soul's mouth drops open. "Oh, God – did you run away?"

It's an instinct to gently punch his shoulder. "No… I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

They stare at each other quietly in disbelief, one side of Soul's mouth hiking higher than the other as he smiles demurely, as Maka comes off her high, her face hot from the pendulum between extreme emotions. She sniffles into the crook of her elbow.

A musician like Soul doesn't miss a beat. "Are you okay?"

All Maka can do is nod because her throat's closing. Whether it's because they almost missed each other or because they're speeding away from everything she's ever known, she's not sure. Or maybe it has something to do with the space between them and their mouths. There's always something separating them.

Feelings are confusing. Now isn't the time to be sentimental, but it's hard not to when Soul's so understanding, looking at her with his forehead wrinkled.

From within Maka's faded tote bag, Blair meows, prompting Soul to feign a frown. "Oh, right. You brought your cat."

Maka wipes at her eyes, laughter pinching her cheeks. "Of course. She's my family!"

Hand on her shoulder, Soul gently guides her away from the door. "You two _do_ look alike. Small and powerful."

She's not done reeling from her lips being so close to his, following him quietly down the aisle until he stops in front of a compartment, shaking her head when he bows playfully and lets her in first. There's no time to dwell on the fact that the bench is the most comfortable thing she'll ever sleep on as she throws herself onto it.

Unzipping her bag, she reaches in and reels out Blair.

"My poor kitten," she coos, hyperaware of Soul watching her scratch Blair behind the ear. "Did all my running scare you? I'm sorry… we just need a nap to get rid of the jitters. A nap, baby…"

Loud meows drown out Soul's amused scoff as he turns his back to them, shoving his suitcase underneath his bench. Maka hasn't stopped thinking about how alone he looked, waiting at the train station. Maka shouldn't try to read too much into it, but _everything_ has a meaning, and she's just trying to look for an excuse to keep him talking.

"Hey Soul?"

Maka should probably look elsewhere as he shimmies off his snowflake-dusted coat, as he snatches off his newsboy cap and runs his fingers through his hair. It's too intimate of a moment – he's in another world for an instant, somewhere far away, and that calmness isn't something she wants to take away from him. But wherever he is, he must feel her staring, because his gaze flickers over to her, brows rising questioningly. "Sorry – did you say something?"

"Mhmm…Were you waiting for me?"

"'Course," he says, suddenly not able to meet her eyes.

A few moments of silence pass before curiosity gets the best of her. "It didn't look like you were going to get on the train."

Nonchalant as always, he shrugs.

"I'm just wondering, because…" She's fumbling, clumsily stringing together her feelings and thoughts. She lies down and curls up, using her scarf as a makeshift pillow. "Well, you didn't even put your luggage on the train until you saw me…"

"Yeah, I guess that's what happened."

There's companiable silence before she ventures, "Would you have left without me?"

He falls onto his bench right across from her, tugging his cap back on. "Doesn't matter. We're here now, right?"

There's no need to answer. Between thinking that it feels right being here with him, and wanting to plop down next to him, she realizes she's a great follower: she only breaks into a grin after he does, like a reflection that's two seconds behind.

X

A distant sneeze summons Maka out of a weird dream where she's a little princess wearing a tiara, a redheaded man fawning over the barely-there curl he managed to put in one of twin tails hanging on either side of her face.

"Dumb cat," Soul is mumbling somewhere nearby.

"Not du…mb," Maka says groggily, mouth feeling like it's full of cotton balls.

Blair meows, curious and skeptical.

"C'mon," comes Soul's voice in a strangled whisper, cut off by sneeze and a resigned sigh. "Put your paw here."

Maka wishes she could finish the dream – Papa was going to read to her after tea-time – but it's fading away, away, turning white and overbright as he coos, "Papa loves you and Mama best of all."

Blearily, she looks around, not sure which way is up or down or left or right, what's real and what's temporary. Pulling herself up, she squints at the blurry outline of Soul holding his hand out for Blair and Blair sitting and staring curiously, her little paw in his. "Wait… what's happening?"

Into his slack pockets his hands go. "Nothing!"

A tired glance out the window tells Maka the sky isn't water-colored with amber anymore. It's blue, nothing but blue, and infinite in its beauty.

"The cat is a menace and needs to be in a cage," he goes on.

Betrayal is Maka's pulse quickening when he crosses the small space between them, turning Blair over to her like a baby. Puffy and swollen, his eyes water as he gives Maka a half-hearted pout, one eyelid thicker than the other. Maka can't believe she still finds him beautiful in this state.

"My turn to nap," he announces. Apparently he hadn't slept well the night before either, worrying late into the night about the trip, and he had stayed up to make sure Blair didn't disturb Maka (read: scratched her face) while she slept.

Staring isn't polite. Maka tells herself that she only glances over his way as he breathes softly because she's watching out for him. Even in his sleep he looks anxious – brows knit, fingers twitching. Maybe in his dreams he's playing the piano.

Of course, Maka isn't sure whether that's good or bad.

X

Once upon a time, according to an elated Soul with his head in Maka's lap and her fingers in his hair, there was a princess who fell in love with a commoner. She must have been sneaking out from the palace from a young age to see her boyfriend because she had barely blown out her sixteenth birthday cake candles when she gave birth to a premature baby girl. No one was happy – except the young father, who doted on his new wife and daughter.

The royal family hated him, scorned the princess, and didn't accept the newborn as part of their family. They accused the boy who impregnated the heiress of lusting after their privilege and prestige, but money nor power interested him as much as sex did.

"It's true, I swear," Soul insists when Maka interrupts his monologue with nauseated half-groans. "I'm not making any of this up. The guy was – _is_ still – a total pervert."

"What does this have to do with why you always play at that ball in America?"

"I'm getting to it." Aside from music, Maka has never seen Soul so talkative, speaking so intensely about a seemingly trivial topic. Not that she's complaining. She loves to hear Soul talk almost as much as she loves cuddling Blair. And that thought only has her thinking of cuddling _Soul_ –

"Do you know who was in power before Moriarty?"

"You mean the Grim Reaper?" Maka squints down at him, pretending to concentrate but actually reveling in the eye contact. "Uh… we didn't really talk about government in the school I went to."

Soul scowls. "Figures. He outlawed political history except for the part where he saved the Shibusen from Medusa, but that's highly classified information only some aristocrats know. All of this is a secret from the public. They just know that there's been a lot of unrest."

The sarcasm in his voice is rough and jagged and _oh_ , why does she have a soft spot for it?

"People like you know the truth," she sums up for him.

"Yep. People with money, like my family. But here's what you need to know, Maka – before Grim Reaper, there was this dictator Medusa, and before her… well, it was the princess's family. And they turned their backs on her because she was a teenage mom with a slut of a husband." There is a pause in his livid rant to bite his lip. "People like to say that the royal family was so torn because of disgrace that no one noticed Medusa betraying them until it was too late."

Maka shivers. "What happened?"

"Medusa was ruthless and got rid of them, one by one. No one knew who it was behind the assassinations at first. And then the princess and her little exiled family were left, and they split up… no one really knows what happened to their little girl, but the person who was hiding her was found and killed by the mercenary working for Medusa."

Soul's forehead is so warm, hot even – probably from the educational lecture, which is so uncharacteristic of him. She never pegged him to be outspoken against political corruption and injustice, but it fits him well since he's fond of quiet rebellion.

"That's sickening," Maka agrees, tracing the arch of his brow lightly with her thumb. She's never been this close to him before – she's afraid of breaking him. Steering the conversation away from horror seems like the best option right now, considering she's too far off in her daydreams to pay attention. "And you go to New York every year because of this?"

"Yes and no. You see, besides my brother, that's who I'm going to visit." He's resigned now, skin between his brows wrinkled. "Spirit Albarn. The commoner who knocked up the princess. He survived. He throws a big ball every year on his dead daughter's birthday."

"Oh... Oh, God, that's _morbid_."

"Yeah, he's got all sorts of problems." Soul puffs out his cheeks and sighs like what he's about to say is difficult. "He's, uh… been in denial about his daughter probably being dead… because her body was never found."

Maka can't fathom such a tragedy. "That's… horrible. Those poor people. "

Soul looks at the ceiling. "So that's why I'm going to America. Spirit tries to invite everyone who was there because he wants it exactly the same. He thinks maybe his daughter will hear about it and show up, too. And since I played at her sixth birthday party, Spirit always wants me there."

Because Maka herself has been through that Hell – wondering, never knowing if she's being missed too, so full of curiosity that it leaves her empty – she can sympathize with Spirit, who's crass, a cheater, a party addict, but a good person. This is all according to Soul, whose hands are neatly folded on his chest instead of on Maka like she so wishes.

"What was the princess's name?" Maka says, relishing in this moment. She's not too interested in the history lesson, though she'd ask anything to keep him talking. His voice is so soothing.

"I never did know that," he says softly. "She died, too. Years later. Died of a cold and heartbreak, people say."

"And the little girl? What was her name?"

His response is not so fast this time. Too much time passes and Maka doesn't think he'll say anything, but then he closes his eyes and finally responds, "It started with an 'M,' I think."

x

"What's music like?"

Soul looks over at her, blinking. It sets her on fire. "Huh?"

"Well, I don't know anything about it," she begins, twiddling her thumbs. She packed three of her favorite books and all of the letters she received from Blake and she's already read all of those a million times. But she's never read music. "What's it like to read music? To make it?"

"Feels like I'm dying, trying to exorcise a demon out of me," he monotones, eyes back on his paper, pen moving.

Should she laugh or cry? The answer's blurry. She wants to be _close_ to him, stitched together, and sitting across from him for hours while he drifts away with his music and leaves her behind only deepens the need. They've been on the train a week now, halfway to their stop; the mix of boredom and jealousy has her orchestrating a way into one of those rooms inside him.

"It's like… like, there's all this sound in my head, right?" One corner of his mouth curling, he shakes his head and scratches out something he just finished writing. "And there's so much stuff I want to write, I don't know what to pick first. And whatever I do write is terrible. The whole process gives me anxiety."

She steeps in this for a bit. "But if it makes you feel that way, why do you keep doing it?"

"At first it was because my parents made me, but now that I've been on my own for a bit... It's because I'm stupid, and I love it."

At first it doesn't make sense. It's not right. He's literally tried to tear his hair out of his scalp once whilst attempting to perfect a chorus, and has thrown his portfolio out the window when he decided whatever he was working on was 'trash garbage'. But she's seen him swell with pride when he's labored through the headache of ironing out a melody, too, and that makes everything else pale in comparison.

"There's a song I want to write too," she says before she knows where she's going with it.

That did it - he's forgotten all about his music, undivided attention on her. Jaw slack, he looks at her with wide eyes, incredulous. " _You_?"

" _Yes,_ me. It's a song from my childhood - I think. A lullaby."

Pushing his music off to the side, he leans forward to her, elbows on his knees. There's only a sliver between their shoes now. "I could help, if you want."

"I'd love that." She can't help but grin. It feels like every nerve ending in her body is singing.

If he feels the electricity between them, he isn't letting it defer the musical mission. He's flushed, pushing his hair out of his face. "Sing it for me, and I'll write down the notes."

"Ahh… that's just it." She sighs, tucking her lip between her teeth, feeling foolish. "I don't exactly know how it goes. I can barely hear it when I think about it, if that makes sense."

"Can you hum it?"

She tries, only coaxing the first few notes out before the rest of the song sinks somewhere she can't reach, before Soul's straight face breaks and he covers up a laugh by pretending to cough.

"Tone deaf," it sounds like he's snickering.

" _Hmm_!" Crossing her arms, she sits tall in her seat. "I'm trying, okay? Not everyone can be gifted like you."

"I'm _burdened_ , you mean."

Any other day, the disappointment of not remembering the song enough to sing it would have sent her into a few teary episodes, but it's okay because Soul's here to soften the blow.

"It's like hearing something in another language," she offers as their laughter ebbs. "I can remember hearing it, but I can't repeat it, and it makes me want to scream."

" _That's_ what being a musician is, Maka. Suffering."

x

In her dreams there is always a redheaded man who everyone says gave Maka her eyes.

She's not sure if he's a memory or a wish. Whether any of the fairytale-like fragments floating around in her head are real or not is a mystery that may never be solved, and as someone who yearns to know everything, coming to terms with this for Maka is like hitting a dead end. She's capable, intelligent, independent, and yet – _yet_.

It's like she's not entirely here, like she's less than real. She's stuck in this world that only exists when she sleeps, one that sinks into the depths like an anchor when she wakes.

She remembers hair bows. Poofy dresses. Picture books. Being rocked when she couldn't sleep. Lifesize dolls and sweets whenever she wanted them. She half remembers, half forgets. Any solid memories dissolve and slip through her fingers the instant they rise from the depths.

However, the feelings attached to them never change: unconditional love, but with restrictions, confined within a room with wide windows that let the sunshine in. She thinks Mama and Papa were nice to her, but there were people who did not care for her, and sometimes Papa stroked Mama's long brown hair and sometimes Mama yanked at it while she argued with Papa about his dishonesty.

Papa was a liar.

Maka tries not to think about that, instead focusing on her favorite recurring dream. In it, she sits in Papa's lap in the front of the room watching the gussied-up guests dancing to the sound of a live orchestra, and Maka feels so proud for some reason. She's never had a party before and she can finally be around people, which is a new, exciting feeling. Being out of her room is fun.

Papa gently scoots her off his lap and asks her and Mama if they would like to dance as a family. It's all Maka could have hoped for, so when they're on the dance floor she lets go of their hands to shimmy her shoulders and shake her body with all the energy she can muster. Mama laughs, Papa's grin lights up the room as he picks Maka up and spins and throws her in the air, and a round of applause crescendos from their guests.

The ball is nothing but a sea of people. Mama and Papa drift away in the wave as they dance. Maka has never been away from them, but this is okay – she's six now and she's brave, and she can dance by herself, and she does for a little bit before tumbling into someone.

"Ouch," moans the boy clad in a tuxedo. In her dreams, Maka can't quite picture his face, but she knows he has nice eyes. They're expressive and a pretty color she's never seen before.

She can't quite think of a name to describe them.

"I'm sorry." She holds her hand out to him, helping him up like the gentle person her parents raised her to be. "Want to dance?"

"I saw you dancing and you're not good at it," is his automatic reply.

Maka stands akimbo. It's her birthday – she doesn't have to be good at anything, and she tells him so with her chin held high. "Papa said I dance like a princess."

"Because you _are_ a princess," the boy sighs. "I've danced with other princesses and they know different types of dances."

"Then teach me." She holds out her hand again, relishing that his hands are soft and warm as he leads her back to the dance floor. Papa says that people's hands are a good indicator of their hearts, so Maka trusts this quiet boy with a grown up's hairstyle. He seems to carry the weight of the world around on his tired shoulders, but at least she can make him smile like it's bearable for a little bit.

"And then you spin – no, that's too fast," he laughs. It's subdued, like him. "Waltzing is supposed to be slow and smooth, not crazy fast."

He's a good teacher like Mama. And he listens to everything she says, and even tells her about his nightmares where he's playing piano and people morph into blood-curdling screaming demons because they hate his music with such ardent passion. But despite that deep-seated fear, he's going to play her a song. That means the world to Maka, who feels a rush of adoration for him deepen when he asks her to be his best friend.

"Of course," she says with wide eyes, "of course!"

Maka blinks and she's alone again, deciding to focus instead on the people. There is a very pretty black-haired woman with a blissful smile on her face dancing with a tall, red-haired man whose eyes closely resemble someone she knows, although she can't think who. Their faces start to blurry. The boy she was just dancing with is hesitantly making his way to the piano, and she knows his eyes are strange without seeing them, but she doesn't remember why.

None of it feels real, and things in her periphery start to melt. The boy bows to the crowd, sits at the piano, and plays a song she doesn't think she'll hear ever again. Nothing except his fingers move, like he's in a trance until the people around her go from swaying gently to the music to scattering in a panic, and it makes her head fuzzy.

Why is she here? Who is she? Someone's screaming out her name but she isn't sure it's hers so she doesn't respond, and even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be heard over the pandemonium.

Frantically, someone springs out of the chaos and scoops her up – the red-haired man and the woman. Neither of them are happy. Is it her fault? The music has stopped playing, and she looks over the man's shoulder as they scramble away to see the boy frozen stiff at the piano. She's afraid for him but isn't sure why, just knows they won't see each other like he promised.

She wishes they could dance again one day.

After that, everything's mushy. In her dream memory, it's snowing, Mama's crying, Papa's shaking, and her mama gives her the necklace and the ring Maka has loved ever since she can remember. They'll be together again one day, her mama promises. The stitched-face man is going to take her away, and he and his wife with rose-gold hair will take care of her until they meet up again one day.

Maka looks at them, her vision tunneling and breaking like glass. "What?" She has no idea what they're talking about. Now they look like people she should know for some reason.

"I'm sorry we have to go our separate ways," the red-haired man sniffles. "We'll be a family again soon!"

"But I don't want to go away." Maka isn't sure how she makes the word because her mouth doesn't move, but it makes sense. She has a family?

And then she's at the orphanage, a loud silence exploding in her head while Auntie asks if she's cold while Blake wraps a blanket so tightly around Maka she feels claustrophobic.

On the eighth day of the journey, Maka wakes from this dream to Soul's concerned face looking intently at hers. This isn't out of the ordinary – they sleep facing each other on either bench, with Blair in the huge gap between them, but Maka usually wakes before he does and wonders what he dreams about. It's never this way around.

"You were whimpering," he says into the silence.

Bad dreams, terrible dreams, Maka explains. "It's always the same one. It never changes."

She appreciates Soul so much. He may not be much of a talker, but he listens like the sound of her voice is his favorite melody. "Tell me about it."

"There's… this room I'm never allowed out of, until one day, there's a ball for me," she says, squinting at nothing in particular. Remembering is troublesome and inspires her temples to throb. Chasing the memory of the dream as it fades away is a downhill battle. "It was fun, but then… Then I had to say goodbye to my parents."

Soul's lips part, the shock clearly written on his face. "You remember your parents?"

"I… think?" They're more of a feeling than a memory, if the dream is to be believed. Maka explains that she doesn't look like either of them, which adds to her theory that the whole thing might be her subconscious making up false memories.

The train rattles as it slides over the tracks. It almost drowns out Soul's voice: "I mean, I don't look like my parents either. I look like my brother."

"Everyone in my dreams tells me I have my papa's eyes." Maka strokes Blair's fur, who purrs in her sleep. "And my hair is straight like my mama's, but hers is dark and mine isn't."

"My mother's hair is curly," Soul offers. "Families are weird like that."

"What I can't figure out is what happened," she explains. "I think there was a boy playing the piano-"

Soul sits up so abruptly he loses his balance. He clutches onto the edge of the seat with a grip so powerful his knuckles turn white. "A boy?"

Maka tells him everything she can remember, which is butchered and incomplete at times. "He taught me how to dance and then he played a song for me."

"What else do you remember about him?

"I remember… he had nice eyes."

Soul wears a faraway look. "Not scary eyes? Like the devil?"

"No, and he had a nice smile."

He slips into silence then like he does when he's thinking too much. Maka respects his solitude by not prodding, by cuddling Blair instead of crossing the space between them to hug him. He seems kind of lonely, lost. When they're heading out to grab breakfast, he spins around suddenly to meet her, and Maka was following so closely behind that they're pressed up against one another.

There is nothing but awe on his face. "I should have known. I've known all along, I guess…"

Maka rests her hands on his shoulders. "Known what?"

Whatever it is seems to dissolve the longer they stare at each other. "Nothing."

X

Maka doesn't want the train to stop. She could live like this forever. She and Soul eat every meal together and sit together in the darkness talking about nothing and everything, and Soul slowly warms up to Blair again.

"She's gotten bigger," he says, using Maka's book to pet her because of his allergies. "And she's gotten nicer. She's small, but gentle and fierce, like you… Guess I should've known - it's just the soul that matters."

"You really think she's like me? I thought she was like you, always sleepy and moody," Maka teases, nudging him. They're sitting on his seat taking turns throwing a ball of yarn for Blair to play with, just passing the time. "You've both grown up so much."

Soul ignores the gentle jab at him and continues to watch Blair, fascinated. "I didn't think I would find a cat I liked, but here I am…"

"What's wrong with cats?"

"Nothing. I was just never interested. Besides, my parents always made my decisions for me, so I never thought much about cats." He shrugs as if it doesn't matter. Maka would be a fool to take that for face value. Things that mean the world to Soul are usually glossed over with nonchalance because he's too attached to the idea that men aren't allowed to feel anything. But Maka will steer him in the right direction. "And I was fine with that until I met y – _Blair_."

"And so what's the verdict now?" she asks. She can't help but feel like they're not really talking about Blair, that it's never been about Blair except for the sneezing and cuts.

The way he gives her a heart-melting smile only reinforces this thought. "I want to make my own decisions."

Maka grins. "You're such a rebel."

Soul sighs, sinking into himself again. Maka doesn't understand him sometimes. He goes back to petting Blair, using the book and not his hand because he doesn't allow himself to touch her. "Well, it might be too late now. I just did whatever they told me to, but I never thought I'd want something I couldn't have…"

X

"Once upon a time there was a boy," Soul begins after Maka settles her head into his lap, closing her eyes to focus on his voice instead of the pounding against her skull.

"Did he have a name?" It might not be relevant to the plot, but she _has_ to know. Names are sacred.

"Yeah, but he didn't like it. He didn't like anything or anyone, really."

And no one and nothing liked him in return - or, at least, that's what he told himself. He became an expert at pushing people away because all he wanted was the nothingness of being left _alone_ with his thoughts and his talents. But music is his life sentence, both a gift and a curse. When he was born, his mother held him against her chest, examined his tiny hands, and planned out his life: "He's got long fingers! He's going to be a pianist!"

Nineteen years later, here he is, a legendary name.

"He doesn't _hate_ it," Soul explains, shy fingers near her hair. "He likes it, actually, but it feels awkward getting attention for it. And I don't like attention. _He_ doesn't, I mean. I mean…"

Maka watches him curl his lips between his teeth before cursing.

"I'm not good at telling stories. That's your thing."

Maybe closing her eyes would stop her pulse from jackhammering along her temples, but she can't look away from him. "Me?"

"Yeah, since you read so much." There's a pause. "And I wish I were better at telling stories, because there's something I have to tell you. A story."

"I'm all ears."

"But…" He bites his lower lip as Maka wishes she could iron out the crease between his brows. It seems like it's becoming permanent. "I'm not good with words…"

She wants to dig deeper. There's so much depth to Soul, just out of her reach. Closing her eyes, she tries to find the right question to ask, to get him to open up all the way, to bleed. Time makes her thoughts melt. He's almost massaging her scalp, fingers hesitantly curling her hair. The lack of pressure has her swooning, making white hot lightning bolts strike across her skull because she's unconsciously holding her breath.

_Let go_ , she begs herself. _Let things come to you_.

And then there's nothing except silence as his fingers finally, barely graze her. He moves them like he's playing a song on a piano, in a rhythm she can't read but succumbs to anyway because there's a certain gentleness in the way he _almost_ touches her.

She's dozing off when he whispers, "Hey, Maka?"

"Hmm?"

"Is your headache better?"

Oh. She'd forgotten all about that.

x

"I didn't always _not_ have a family," Maka says into the quiet, feeling brave. Late night talks have become their new way of opening up to each other. "I think I had one. I _must_ have had one."

Soul's silhouette is slouched against the wall across from her, one long leg stretched out on the seat in front of him while the other hangs off the bench's edge. "That makes sense."

"I can almost remember them. Papa had red hair and he was tall. Mama was shorter and had long hair. What about your parents?"

"Well – my mom has white hair too. Everyone in my family is tall. And…" Maka stares into the darkness in the direction of his voice, swearing she can see him blink a few times under the strain of contemplating what to reveal. "Only my brother and I play instruments, except Wes gave up the violin because of our father. He wanted to prep Wes to take over the family business."

"I want to hear you play," she says, begs. "I already love it."

"I'll play for you at the ball," he promises again and again. "Everything will make a lot of more sense then."

These conversations are therapeutic at best, depressing at worst. Soul's only taste of free-will has come from composing. Born ten years after his brother, he was basically raised as a first born but without the luxury of being allowed a few mistakes. Missing sharps was inexcusable, success was more of an expectation than a personal aspiration, and playing with the other children was such a strange concept he learned to think he was born an old man.

"I just don't fit in." There is no emotion in it – he says it like it's a fact, as if stating that the sky opened up and poured rain and drowned a town and none of it is a big deal.

It breaks Maka hearts. "That's valid," she says, nodding into the darkness. "I felt something similar. I didn't feel alone at the orphanage, but you know that saying that blood is thicker than water? I always felt that was true. I just want to know who I am."

"You're you." Soul's sure voice is steady and calming.

Maka snorts to cover up a whimper. "That's what my friend Blake always said."

With a cold jolt, she realizes that she's never told him about Blake, or her fondness toward him for making the best out of the cards he was handed, for being her family, her brother. Before long, she's off on a broken, hesitant tangent about Blake's mishaps, his equally abysmal efforts to clean them up, and Maka's quiet love for him in his absence.

"Everyone ends up leaving," she wants to say, but can't. Opening up is like falling through the sky without anything to catch her, so she sniffles into her hands and stops talking.

Something in the darkness shifts, Soul breathing quietly, thinking. Understanding.

"Sounds like Wes and me. He's my parent and brother and mentor. Staying in touch is hard..." He pauses to lay down on the seat. "Traveling across the world to see him and play at the ball every year sucks, but it's worth it once I'm there. And this time, I'm not alone. I guess I'm glad I took a break from my piano tour, because I got to meet you."

Maka closes her eyes, picturing their friendship. Sure, they started off rocky, and they're from two walks of life, but their differences balance them out, harmonize them. She's passionate and doesn't mind taking risks, and he's mellow (to an extent) and moves more calculatingly.

Something about _him_ just makes her smile. She's glad it's dark so he can't see her dreamy expression.

"Me too. I'm excited for New York. I can't wait to see what life is like there."

' _With you by my side'_ hangs between them as she falls asleep.


	5. Caught in the fragility of the moment

Maka slides into the booth next to him, lays a hand on top of his in silent greeting, and two things happen: he snaps out of his daydream to return her grin, and a whisper from two tables down reaches them: "Look at the cute newlywed couple!"

They stare at each other, caught in the fragility of the moment. She feels him tense up in the quiet aftermath, his skin a certain Braille she can't read. The injustice of it has her face burning like it does when she's on the verge of some extreme emotion. What's worse is she's not sure why Soul's eyes go wide for a split second, why they're so vivid and delicate before they dim.

"Guess they think we're together," she offers, not sure if she's articulating correctly. Her tongue is numb, thick with clumsiness.

He simmers in their silence, jaw set, looking at her carefully.

She wants to fidget. Stringing words together has never been more difficult. "And when you really think about it… we are, right? You promised you'd be with me this whole time."

Soul had told her once that even silence is music, so as he sits still and doesn't reply, she pretends he's listening to some melody she can't hear. She wants to go on and say that it doesn't matter _how_ they're together, that she'll follow him to the ends of the earth if he wants, because she trusts he's not something fleeting. And even though that type of permanence is terrifying and new, she knows she's nothing less than brave.

"Right," he finally says, somewhat hesitantly. "And I don't break my promises."

Maka doesn't either. They share a warm smile and order breakfast and hold hands under the table so no one else speculates on the status of their relationship. She watches Soul drown his stack of pancakes in syrup and can't decide why their conversation feels unfinished.

X

Maka spends too much time in her head.

Often, she finds that it's not thinking at all, just feeling. And she feels a lot. She feels Soul close and open in front of her, feels him staring when she looks away, feels static in the air between them sometimes. It reminds her of the few seconds before lightning strikes, but for them, that's yet to happen.

Close quarters make tensions run high, though.

Maka can't find anything to chalk up the friction. No excuses, no delusions. Just Soul. Denial is her strongest defense mechanism and she's slowly losing her sanity the stronger the electricity in the compartment pulses. She sits with her arms crossed as a last-ditch effort to protect herself. As a result, Soul assumes she's angry and distances himself out of respect for her space and concern for his safety, which is both okay and not okay.

She thinks she knows exactly what this is – but, does he know too? Does he feel the pull between them, does he feel faint with the want to hold her? She feels like her chest is the empty sky the moment before thunder rumbles, and her bones rattle desperately for his warmth as much as she has to talk herself out of crawling under his blanket with him at night.

Sometimes, when Maka twirls her ring around her finger and stares at him while he pretends not to notice, she thinks she could march right over and kiss him, just to see if it eases some of the tension. There is a demon sitting on her shoulder goading her on, and the angel on the other shoulder smiles sweetly and doesn't advise against it.

Maka just needs to get it out of her system. It's only natural she finds her best friend beautiful, that she aches to know everything about him including what he dreams about and how it'd feel to be pressed up against one another.

It gives her a headache. She pushes the feelings away because they're ridiculous and one-sided and fictional. It's silly of her to think that what was once ice between them is now water, heating up.

Soul keeps his distance, too – or tries to. Physically and emotionally. Questions about his family and career are now off limits, and during the daytime, they speak to each other from across the compartment. Maka can't help but think his aloofness is a punishment for building a wall around herself.

But that's crazy, and she starts to think she's finally gone mad too because there's nothing between them, and Soul wouldn't be acting this way if he sensed the same thing she did, except there's nothing there.

Right?

Either way, she knows neither of them has the discipline necessary to stay away from each other.

"I'm cold," Maka complains, the last rays of light peeking in through the window. A little voice in the back of her head tells her to hush, to stop, that she's playing with fire.

But she's _so cold_.

Soul points out that she's always freezing. He pauses, eyes dark, setting her skin ablaze.

"Come here," he says, opening up one side of his fur-lined coat.

Maka knows she shouldn't, but she goes because she just wants to be close. She fits next to him like a puzzle piece. No – she molds into his side, arms around his waist, head resting on his chest as he snuggles her in the coat and shimmies on a blanket over them. Whether his body heat is to thank for her instant warmth isn't something she wants to think about, so she closes her eyes and focuses on the sound of the train gliding over the rails.

"This is nice," Soul's lulled voice murmurs as she falls asleep.

X

The next day, the sun is bright and distant in the sky as they finally step off the train, merging with the crowd leaving the station.

"We'll have to stay in a hotel tonight. Our ship doesn't leave until tomorrow," Soul explains, tugging his newsboy cap further down his face and reaching for her hand.

"Ship?" Maka's mind has been everywhere lately. Right now it's focused on how easy this is, being here with Soul. "Ahh… ship? Soul, you never mentioned we would have to board a ship."

Genuine confusion flashes across his face. "I thought that was clear… How are we going to get to New York without one?"

Something like panic bubbles in the pit of her stomach. From how she stammers and tries to reason why the realization never crossed her mind, one would think she's never uttered a coherent thing in her life. Even her hands shake as she motions around, nearly knocking his cap off. Soul secures it before gingerly seizing her wrists and bringing them to his mouth – for a feverish second she thinks he's going to kiss her, but he only pulls her in close enough to get her attention.

His eyes are so red. "If you're nervous about the ship, we don't have to go. We can stay here-"

"But…" _Focus_ , Maka, she tells herself. His nearness is distracting and oddly welcomed. "But you made a promise to Mr. Albarn."

"You're more important than that promise."

She decides to keep following him.

X

They check into a room with two twin beds separated by a night table, drop off their bags, make sure Blair is happy and won't escape, and journey hand-in-hand to explore the city. Soul knows its sidewalks and tiny coffee shops well because he has been here too many times, and in return, it knows _him_. Everyone seems to want some of his time. _It's not fair_ , Maka thinks, standing back as people come up to him wanting to shake his hand.

"I've played at a lot of places here," he clarifies. "Guess people recognize me because of my hair. Stupid cap doesn't hide it well enough..."

Maka takes off the bomber hat he had gifted her. "I'll trade you."

He flashes a grin, thanks her and her brilliance, plops his newsboy cap on her head, and tugs the bomber hat on. It covers his hair completely and Maka almost misses it, but she's too stricken with how red his eyes are, how their softness reminds her of honey being touched by light.

"You might have to close your eyes, too," she says, squinting at him, thinking it's ironic that helping him hide his hair only brought out something else in him.

"Why?"

"Your eyes are beauti - _unique_. People might recognize you!"

"Hmm… Let's hope people don't get close enough to notice them. If they do, they might never stop staring at me."

Lord, does Maka know that's true.

X

"Hey, are you _the_ Soul Evans?"

He visibly wilts, eyes flickering to Maka self-consciously before nodding. "Uh, I'm just Soul."

"I'd heard you were in town but wow - I'm such a fan!" The young man breaks into a grin, shaking Soul's hand with the enthusiasm of a cheering audience while Soul looks like he wants to slip through the ground and into a grave. "Feel free to say no, but we need a pianist -"

"I only play at concerts and in empty music halls when I practice," comes Soul's dead reply.

Maka hadn't realized she was grinning until she feels her face fall. " _Soul!_ This sounds excellent!"

"It's _Jazz_ , you can't say no to it," the fan is saying, still hopeful.

Soul perks up a bit, contemplation softening his face. "I've always wanted to play at a Jazz club..."

Somehow, Maka expected this the moment Soul suggested venturing into a nightclub after their dinner at a fancy restaurant where she was severely undressed in her patched-up dress and felt helpless because she couldn't read the menu. It was in another language, just like music is, both equally beyond her understanding.

But Soul hadn't judged her, no - he had patiently helped her order and held her hand tightly on their way out when the host gave her a withering look. Clearly, she's not Soul's _outward_ match, but it's just the soul that matters, and theirs click like magnets. That's what Soul always says, anyway, and he reminded her again when she told him how she hates the looks they get.

Now, as she's sitting watching the scene unfold, she doesn't know how to feel. She's never even _heard_ of Jazz until Soul wanted to come here, but it's making his face light up, the space between his brows smoothing over, worry-free.

"We've never had a pianist, so we'd be honored to have you play with us..."

Hook and sink. The young man introduces himself as Kilik, the trumpet player of a traveling band that's made up of his friends Ox, Harvar, and sisters Liz and Patti. All four are setting up on the stage, the taller blonde scolding the shorter one for banging the cymbals near the boys' heads. Soul looks at them with a smirk, like he thinks they'd be fun to meet.

Maka watches from a distance, paralyzed with her shortcomings. She's not sure of anything anymore - is it the smoke in the air that's making her feel hazy? Are the dim lights and dark colors clouding her senses? Is it possible to lose Soul to music when music was there first?

Soul's gaze flickers back to her as Kilik waves goodbye and hops onto the stage.

"I'm not going," he tells her.

Her mouth drops open. "Why not?"

There are too many reasons, he says, and none of them make sense outside of his head. "And besides, I want the first time I play for you to be at the ball."

"Each time you play for me can be the first time," she says, and it shifts something inside her and allows tranquility to sweep over her. Apparently it helps him too, because he reaches out to touch her cheek as a thanks before going on stage.

Maka sits back in the darkness and watches Soul fall in love with performing. It's a curious moment if deja vu - she doesn't hear anything because her thoughts are so loud, memorizing how the stage light casts a calmness over him, how it makes the shadows on the creases of his clothes, how those shadows move with him as he plays.

When she thinks back on the moment later that night as Soul sleeps soundly in the bed just a short space away from hers, all she remember is how free he looked, his sleeves rolled up mid-arm, his tie removed, his vest off. He went somewhere far away, somewhere beyond her reach, and that art of losing was a privilege to experience.

X

She barely sleeps.

Between falling in and out of dreaming about teddy bears lined up against the wall of room she's never allowed to leave, and worrying about the leaving on a ship, she's not coherent the next morning.

'Emotional' is a better word for it. She thinks about how Blake can't write her letters anymore because she's always on the move, so when he eventually receives hers and decides to reply, how long is it going to take for them to reach her in New York? Her heart's skipping beats, going too fast with the anxious realization that she's really leaving, haunted that too many things don't last.

Where is she going to be when Soul's done with his commitments? What's going to happen with _them_?

A twinge of sorrow catches in her throat – what if this journey is only taking her further from her parents?

But as she and Soul board the ship arm-in-arm, she can imagine a life without closure about her papa and mama because she has a partner and best friend like _him_ who cares for her when she's sad and isn't afraid to call her out when she's in the wrong. The world is big and she's lucky to have met someone who reminds her she's whole.

All she knows is she can trust Soul, whose voice is like silk and serenity. She follows Soul's lead with unyielding trust in his experiences with traveling. This isn't his first time crossing the ocean, but for Maka, somehow the idea of putting so much distance between herself and the orphanage feels more permanent, and that's not something she's used to.

A surge of overwhelming adoration ripples through her just as Soul opens the door to their cabin. Maka's jaw drops. Having already been in his family's ornate mansion should have prepared her for what to expect, but being accustomed to second-hand everything, even wobbly furniture, has been ingrained in her. This room is spacious and lavish – the walls aren't faded, peeling, or cracked. It's textiled, relaxing tones of red on brown hardwood. The wall lighting adds an ethereal touch and Maka feels the floors disappear for a bit.

Good thing Soul is holding onto her.

"Home sweet home for the next eight days." Soul scans the room, searches her face, grins at her expression, and squeezes her arm. "You alright?"

"It's just so – _beautiful_."

He's so proud that she wishes she could give him a gold medal. Part of her wants to believe his sudden giddiness is because of her excitement at living here like a princess, because of _her_ happiness. If her mood affects him so much, she'll promise to never be sad again -

"There's only one bed," he says suddenly, like he can't believe what he's seeing or saying.

Maka doesn't understand his hesitation until she does the math: one plus one is two, and one bed per person but two bodies doesn't add up. The bed that's pushed against the corner of the room is spacious enough for a couple, but she and Soul are not a _couple_.

"I can sleep in the armchair, Soul. It's fine."

Soul still stares at the room as if another bed will appear out of nowhere. "No. I can take the armchair."

She shakes her head. "I insist."

"No – I don't sleep well anyway. So I'll take it."

"You should take it _because_ you don't sleep well!"

She can feel another fight brewing between them, all because they care about each other too much. The key to avoiding an argument is compromise, something Maka isn't too practiced in

because she's a storm of stubborn will.

But the answer comes to her easily. "We could, you know... _Share_."

His eyes go _wide, wide, wide_.

She clarifies, "Oh, I just mean – we shared the bench on the train a few times, and that was okay, right?"

Soul's so still, Maka isn't sure he's breathing.

"We could pretend it's a big sleepover," she insists, nudging him. "I don't bite."

He melts like ice cream when it's left out too long.

X

Soul and Maka are both great at reading. It's another thing they have in common, something that brings them together. But it turns out Maka isn't good at reading between the lines. It's not until Soul is deep into his story that she realizes Soul's been trying to tell her something about _them_ this whole time.

"Once upon a time, the girl and the boy met," he tells her, making her heart feel like it's been jump-started.

There's a flurry of motion in her brain, trying to piece together everything, but she hasn't exactly been listening. She's been too entranced by how the sound of his voice makes her ache to listen to his every word.

"Wait," she gasps, the room going still around them as they get ready to head down to the dining room for their first dinner on the ship. "I'm not ready. Can you start from the beginning?"

Hurt flashes across his face, and Maka hates that he doesn't hide it, that it's her fault.

"From the very beginning. And please… don't leave anything out."

His story always starts out the same:

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Maka with an unknown last name. Her parents loved her, very much, so much that they had to go their separate ways when there was danger, but somewhere along the path to be reunited with them, she got lost.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who hated his name, especially his last name. His parents loved him but they suffocated him, very much, but not enough for him to stray from the path they wanted him to travel - even if it made him feel lost.

And then the girl with no last name and the boy who hated his met at a ball.

No matter how Maka looks at it, the story doesn't make sense, but Soul promises it's not over - not until they're in New York, at Spirit Albarn's annual party.

"It'll make a lot of sense then," he promises vaguely when she asks _why_. "Listen to the song I'm going to play, and you'll know."

The deja vu of it makes her head hurt. She thinks long and hard, but nothing comes to her except that it reminds her of something he said on the train, but she hadn't been listening then either. It reminds her of something out of her dreams. Either way, it's a puzzle Maka can only fit together if she broke the pieces and forced their ends to meet.

All that runs through her head is what he told her when they first talked: _you remind me of someone who was lost_.

Does that mean she reminds him of _him?_

Sometimes Maka thinks there's something wrong with her head. She can't remember things from the past for too long, can't see things that are stuck in the periphery of her vision. She always thought that was just part of the art of losing, but now she thinks it's also because she's not good at music.

There's a certain pattern to all of this, a rhythmic one she can't read.

x

The journey aboard ship is an endless psychedelic dream she doesn't want to wake up from. She finds Soul's arm draped protectively over her shoulder in the mornings, they spend every waking moment together except for when the other one is changing or showering, and when they go to bed at night, Maka can imagine forever stretched out in front of them.

Life is easy with Soul, even when rage boils her blood because he shuts down and doesn't talk to her for a few hours. He's more unsettling than the waves underneath the ship when there's a storm, something she doesn't know how to deal with, especially as more and more people learn his last name.

"Can't ever get away," he seethes under his breath after they're cornered by an older couple as they're leaving the dining hall, both wanting to know if Soul was going to perform on the ship. And then, noticing his hand linked with Maka's, they wanted to know how long they had been married. _Congratulations_ , they'd said, they hadn't known that the wedding had been moved up -

"Did we get married without me knowing?" she tries to joke, coaxing him down the hall to their room.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't look at her either, doesn't change into his pajamas before throwing himself face-down onto the bed and sulking until Maka decides she's too overstimulated by feelings to read. She turns off the lights but can't turn off her mind.

She tries not to be hurt. Would it be _that_ awful to be married to her?

X

_Papa and Mama's marriage wasn't perfect,_ she remembers distantly as she watches Soul button his shirt and tie his tie in the mirror the next morning, his reflection moving tiredly, sluggishly.

The thought makes sense. It would explain why she remembers her mama pulling at her in frustration when she argued with Papa, why Maka doesn't think her family was happy all the time. It's obvious, but Maka isn't good at seeing what's in front of her clearly. She's blind. It somehow must stem from her inability to read music.

And even when she's seeing, she's not thinking, not understanding. There's a disconnect somewhere. She doesn't realize Soul has noticed she was awakened by his rustling until she meets his eyes in the mirror.

"Sorry," she mumbles, pulling the covers over her face, hiding. "I didn't mean to stare while you got dressed."

_God_ , is her face hot.

X

The shift in Soul's mood has Maka reaching for her necklace more and more.

"Wes doesn't play anymore," he growls at the tenth person who comes up to him at dinner and asks about his older brother. "He retired. He's done with music. He doesn't even touch his violin anymore. It's dead to him. He doesn't play music anymore!"

Rumors of Soul's turbulent temperament should be warding away people, but instead, it attracts them like vultures. His distress is horrible to watch, especially because she can't reach out and hold his hand. Apparently that public display of affection started other gossip, too. Not that Maka minds, but she doesn't want to violate Soul's personal space when he's in a bad mood.

So she plays with her ring.

"Soul," she whispers when they're finally alone at their table. "Didn't you say Wes was going to come out of retirement? And you were going to do a tour with him or something?"

Soul hides his face in his hands. "... Yeah." Then he peeks out between his fingers at her, sighing. "I'm a bad liar."

"You are," she agrees, trying to remember which was the salad fork and what spoon is designated for what. "Next time, we should tell them to get lost. I'll fight them with you."

"I'm just so tired." He runs his fingers through his hair, taking in a deep breath. "I want to go somewhere where people can't find me and don't know my business."

"I know a place like that," she offers, hiking her eyebrows up innocently.

"Oh - where?"

"Our room."

He stares blankly, and the feeling that blooms in her chest when he breaks into a grin feels like a fire roaring. "Okay. When the food comes, we'll take the dishes and run away together."

Maka would love that.

X

Thirty minutes finds them in their room, Soul's vest strewn on the floor next to their shoes, the smell of pasta in the air.

"What's your brother like?"

"Wes is an idiot," Soul says as he sticks his fork into his second piece of cake. "I'm not annoyed that everyone's down my throat about him. People love him. Everyone loves him, even if he's so over the top. He's _pompous_. You'll know what I mean when you meet him."

"You love him." Maka points at him with her fork instead of sticking it in her chicken parmesana, winking. Teasing Soul is fun. "He's your brother and you love him."

"I guess," he allows, reaching for another piece of cake. "But don't tell him I said that. And don't judge me, Maka. I won't be shamed into giving up sweets."

His sweet tooth is awe-inspiring. He's probably nine tenths sugar, but he's one hundred percent bitter. Not toward his brother of course, who tried his best to protect Soul from their parents. It's not Wes's fault that Soul doesn't get along with them. He's just in the middle, trapped, an innocent bystander.

"It's complicated," Soul sighs. "I'm not _mad_ people are asking about my brother. I'm mad that they won't leave _him_ alone. And it's all because of my parents. They talk too much."

Maka nods to show she understands when she really doesn't. She needs things to be laid out in front of her and connected. It comes with the memory loss.

He picks at the cake frosting, swirling it around the ornate plate. "And what's with everyone being obsessed about you and me? I know my parents aren't here, but I blame them for this, too. They're too focused on social status. They tell _everyone_ what's going on in our family… only the good stuff, of course. Or what they want to happen."

Maka's learned a lot from Soul since she's met him - like how to listen to what's not being said. She's picked up patience, a lot of it. So she sits and waits for him to drop whatever the big thing is that his parents have done to him. She can feel it build up inside him, and it has to come out sometime. She's stronger than her impulses; she won't pry.

But it doesn't come. Soul rants about a time when he was fourteen and his parents dragged him all the way to Yngling to play for their princess's birthday until he gets choked up at the most vital part, not even opening his mouth to bite into a piece of chocolate he'd been playing with.

No wonder Soul can't sleep - he's always being terrorized by memories of his parents controlling him.

But Maka _still_ isn't sure what exactly made the rift in his relationship with his parents worse. Maybe he's already said it but she didn't realize it. Either way, Maka could _scream_. Instead, she savors the seasoning on the chicken carefully, pulling herself together, letting herself think about other things that have been swimming around in the corners of her mind.

"And us?" she asks into their silence. "Why does it matter if people are asking about us?"

"'Cuz they're being nosy, and I'm a private person."

Maka shouldn't laugh, but she can't help it. Soul's innocent honesty is endearing. So is the way his mussed up hair falls over his eyes, how he wears emotion so well. She reaches across the dishes between them to bop him on the nose, calling him silly, overwhelmed by adoration.

X

She loses her ring the next morning.

It's irreplaceable, of course - it was her mama's, who she probably won't ever see again in this life. Maka should have been more careful. Most beautiful things are held close with the thorough understanding that losing it would be devastating, and the ring was just that. Its permanence provided solace and made life more bearable.

So, it's only reasonable that absentmindedly reaching for it when she wakes and not feeling it there makes something inside her implode.

"Soul, my ring – oh God, _I can't find it_. The necklace is gone too."

She's not aware she's clawing at her face until Soul's hands are over hers, guiding them to his face instead. Even with Soul at her side it feels like she's alone in this world all over again, like when she was six and turned up at the orphanage.

"Shhhh. It'll be fine, Maka."

Anger is like a bolt of lightning – it's there and does damage before she can think. "Didn't you hear me? It's gone. I can't find it!"

Cue crying, bawling, scratching. Fists. Her knees folding like cardboard. Soul's arms around her as she sinks to the ground, overcome with grief. But Auntie didn't raise a quitter – Maka pats the ground blindly through her bawls, hoping against hope that she comes across the ring. Soul gives up trying to pull her up to her feet and joins in on the search, rationally peering underneath the bed while Maka scratches at the carpet, begging it to return the piece.

"Where was the place you had it?"

"Around my _neck_!" She's shrill, hysterical, and inconsolable. Soul's energy changes – he turns away and sticks his hand under the bed. Maka has to remember to thank him for not giving up when she calms down, if she ever does.

"I can't remember if you took off your necklace when we went to bed," he's saying, logical and methodical.

"I almost never take it off!"

It's gone forever. Any shred of hope she had of finding her parents can be kissed goodbye now. Not that she had been actively working on searching for them, but she had the dream at least, hadn't she? The ring symbolized someone loved her before she could remember. It was the only thing linking her to her parents, and now it's disappeared.

It's like losing them all over again.

Soul stands up to check the bed, and watching him move inspires the instinct to wrap her arms around him and not let go. All precious things _leave_ , and in this moment there is no one more precious than Soul. But all Maka can do is sit there with clenched fists and a broken heart while Soul fights her battle for her.

The pillows pushed aside, he goes still, and for once he catches Maka staring _at him_ instead of the other way around when he turns to look at her. He holds his arm out at her. Something hangs from his hand, swaying, catching the candlelight and gleaming gold –

Maka's face breaks again, this time with tears of relief. "Oh, you found it…"

She should be embarrassed to be reduced to such a deplorable mess, but nothing is uncomfortable with Soul. The extremes of emotion are a blessing as Soul drops down next to her, their knees bumping. He motions for her to hold out her hand. Watching him gingerly unclasp the necklace and free the ring and slide it on her finger is surreal, the ground beneath them rolling with the waves.

"There," he says, quiet. "It looks good on you."

Her head hurts and her nose is too stuffed up to breathe. She's blushing. "Thank you."

X

After the wedding band incident, the tension between them is so thick and intense that it feels like there's no oxygen left in the room – no oxygen left anywhere except in the other's lungs, and stitching their mouths together would be the only way to survive. At least, that's how Maka feels. She twirls the ring she never removes from her finger around and around and around and can't pinpoint _why_ Soul has this effect on her.

She used to remember, but now her brain has paused, and the reason escaped her. All she knows is the slightest, most accidental of touches sets her on fire. She can't think straight sometimes because there are words she wants to say that stay seared on her tongue.

Especially after they're mistaken for newlyweds again.

"We're not _married_ ," Soul practically shouts at one of the crew members who calls out a hearty congratulations.

" _Soul_ , don't yell at strangers," she tries to soothe out of the corner of her mouth.

He takes it the wrong way. "This is just how loud I always talk!"

That's not true but Maka keeps her lips sealed shut anyway, because she might cry for reasons unknown to herself. She gets angry instead, silently, letting it simmer inside her.

That's safer.

She knows him well enough to see that he's hurt about _something._ He's hurt and her response is to hurt, too. Part of it is selfish. She just wants to be close to him, but _why_? They're best friends and she loves him wholeheartedly, yes, but there's something else she can't articulate, so they just don't talk about it or anything else at all for a few days.

Soul's change in behavior lets her know this _isn't_ one sided – and she's not sure if that makes everything less terrifying or worse. His solution to dealing with the unacknowledged tension is staying as far away as possible without outright ignoring her. It means sitting on the other side of the table at dinner instead of next to her, walking behind her instead of beside, and sleeping with his back to her.

She wonders if it's working for him. Can he ignore the magnetic pull between them that easily? Is that all it takes to quiet it down, for the fever beneath her skin to stop pulsing? Part of Maka steeps in her indignation (how _dare_ he push her off to the side like she isn't important) while the other, more logical side of her is screaming things she isn't ready to confront nor accept.

It's true that she's more brave at night. Speaking while they're blanketed in darkness is somehow less scary – like the words won't exist in the morning.

"Soul?" It's less than a whisper, more like mouthing.

He breathes deeply in his sleep. He tends to whimper if he's having a nightmare, sighs if he's dreaming, and right now he's doing neither. He's awake, but he doesn't respond. Just as Maka decides she's not going to chase someone who isn't putting forth effort to smooth things over with her, he hums, "Hmm?"

The best route is the direct one. "Are we okay?"

"Yeah – yeah, we're okay, I'm just… an idiot."

She closes her eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling yourself that. Or that you'd tell me why you think

that way."

He's quiet.

"I wish…" She stops, rolling her lips between her teeth, biting gently, mustering her strength. It's like he keeps slipping away and she can't bear to lose him like this, so close and yet so far. She doesn't want to be clingy but can't help it – she's fought tooth and nail for everything she's ever loved, and Soul is no exception. She knows him well enough to know he's not very well spoken, and can read his energy fluently to know he doesn't want to leave, but something is forcing him.

Propping herself up on her elbow and turning to him, she asks, "What's going on between us?"

Ridiculous, just ridiculous. The art of losing has taught her that she should ease her grip on things that aren't meant for her. It's not that she lets things happen to her, just that she should have the grace and humility to accept what fate wants. But she can't lose Soul without having a say, either -

Unless he wants to leave, to stay a safe distance away from her. That would be okay, too. It would have to be. It's ultimately his choice, _his_ internal battle. She hopes he accepts her help, and it's evident that he wants to try too when we rolls over to face her. Even in the dark she can see the red in his eyes like dying embers. They remind her of something, but she's not sure what.

"Do you know why I chose to spend time with you even though your cat hates me and I'm allergic to her?"

Maka gulps, trying to focus. "She doesn't hate you..."

"Okay, let's say she doesn't."

"She likes you a lot, Soul."

"Right." He goes up on an elbow too, to look into her face. "Maybe she does, even though I don't deserve it. And I guess… I guess I like her too. She's okay. Maybe a little bit more than okay. But, sometimes two people who like each other meet at the wrong time, or one can't be with the other-"

She wants to cry. "But Blair isn't a person. She's a cat."

"Yeah… she's a cat."

Maka's throat is closing and she just wants to fall asleep with Soul's arm over her. They're seesawing into the edge of the end for some reason, and she should have _known_ , because losing is so easy.

Soul's voice is low and rational and cracks in the middle of his sentence: "I have to stay away from, uh… Blair, because I'm allergic. My parents always told me, and I shouldn't have… let myself like her."

It's not fair that Blair is curled up on the foot of the bed, probably dreaming of fish and cuddles, while Maka is experiencing the heartbreak for her. But of course, Blair is naturally an extension of Maka, and it's never been about Blair or allergies. Never.

"I can't give up Blair," she says. "She's all I have. Besides you, and you're important to me too."

"Don't give up Blair for me," he laugh-cries. "I don't want you to. Blair deserves better."

Maka reaches out to grab his wrist, squeezing tightly because her stare's intensity is probably dulled in the darkness. "Stop saying that!"

He's more than resigned. He's defeated in every sense of the word. "I'm actually an awful, selfish person."

She refuses to believe that and says so, loudly and clearly so it rings true. But Soul shakes his head, frowning. Madness overcomes her for a moment, sheer madness where she wants to cup his cheeks and close the gap between their mouths. It feels like the only solution. But she can't seem to let go of his wrist because she knows what's coming next.

Still, she has to make sure. "So… this is what you want?"

Soul doesn't sound certain. "Yeah…"

There is nothing left to do but let go. She doesn't cry. Mastering the art of losing also teaches her poise and dignity. They sleep with their backs to each other and she guesses this is how it's supposed to be: together but separate.


	6. "Talk to me - I'm right here."

To think of a name for the color of Soul's eyes, she'll actually have to look at him, but that's not easy anymore because they've regressed to pretending not to steal glances when the other isn't looking. Maka has to settle on analyzing memories of his eyes, and she's not good at remembering things. Frustration at its finest is the word being _right there_ , right on the tip of her tongue, on the verge of being, in her periphery where things don't come back.

But Soul isn't something fleeting like that. He always stays.

"Hey, Maka?" he's sitting on his side of the bed. If she closes her eyes she can picture him, his elbows probably on his knees, looking over his shoulder at her.

It's been three days since the bomb drop. She's not even mad anymore, just _hurt_ \- hurt and scared of what the change in the current running between them means. Making up could be easy, if she allowed it, but the next morning she had let his apologies fall on deaf ears. Ever since then, he's been trying to iron out their rough patches by going out of his way to do extra nice things for her, like fluffing her pillows and feeding Blair, but Maka isn't having it.

She hates that about herself, that she can't open up.

"Maka? Maaakaaa…"

She pretends not to hear him, punishing both of them by giving him the cold shoulder. The thought of throwing Blair at him has her arms twitching instinctively, but she thinks twice about that - Blair shouldn't have to endure trauma even if Soul _does_ deserve the worst allergy attack he'll ever have in his life.

Not receiving a response, the bed shifts as he rises and walks around to plop himself down a safe distance away from her.

"Maka? Do you want to-"

"Get bent, Soul," she snaps, Blair hissing in solidarity. "Jump off the ship or something."

There's stunned silence but nothing else. No snarky rebuttal, no surprised gasp, no dip of the bed as he storms out, chased away by her bluntness.

Maka dares to look at him, and the first thing she notices is that one side of his mouth is hiked up higher than the other, that he's sporting devilish stubble. Has it really been that long since she last looked him in the face?

"I really messed up, huh?" He says it mostly to himself, amazed and frustrated.

She continues to stroke Blair's head. "I don't take peace offerings."

"I know… I know." He stretches out on the floral duvet, arms above his head.

Maka feels her will buckle a little. If she weren't holding onto her anger, she'd lay down next to him, maybe wiggle herself into his side and let herself be lulled by his nearness and the ship rocking with the waves.

As much as it pains her to admit, Blake was probably right - she's a little bit stupid. She took a hit to the head, and ever since then, she can't think or feel right.

She stares at her reflection in the big mirror that hangs across the room. In this light, her eyes are a glimmering green, uprooting something important that lurks in her periphery. Knowing she has to wait for it to float to the surface, if it ever does, she watches her brows knit together. "What happens next in your story? When the girl and the boy dance at the ball?"

"They just fit together, like the stars and the night sky. They're happy."

Her back aches from the effort of holding herself upright - maybe this is her muscle's way of telling her she's losing the battle, that she should relent and ask him to hold her. That would be _new_ , something fleeting because he'd have to let go sometime, but it would be okay. It could be a reoccurring thing, both temporary and permanent.

Bending down to let Blair run around on the floor, Maka turns to look at Soul. "We fight a lot."

"Sort of…"

"And it's your fault."

"You really _don't_ ever compromise," he laughs, his dimple endearing from this angle. He props himself up on his elbows to stare at her, probably ecstatic that she's finally talking to him instead of closing the door in his face as he begs for her attention. "Wanna know something?"

She's grinning from ear to ear. "No."

"Each time we fight is like the first time. So, we technically always get along."

" _Or,_ it just means we never make up," she quips, poking his knee. "You have twenty-four hours to make it up to me."

"Deal."

X

Grinning wickedly, Soul swings a leg over the guard railing on the watch platform and pauses to look back at her. In the moon's glow, his eyes are bright against the horizon's darkness. "I'm gonna jump off."

"You. Are. _Not_ ," Maka shouts, crossing her arms.

"But you told me to," is his reply, lifting one hand into the air, probably trying to feel the wind slip through his fingers.

"You're going to _fall_ , Soul, get down here right now!"

"I'm gonna jump. That's what you told me to do."

Figures Soul would find a way to turn a comment she made in anger into something literal and snarky and bullheaded. Maka could curse, but that's not going to get him to do what she wants. She has to play it cool.

"What am I supposed to tell your brother if I get there without you?"

Soul says nothing. Maka watches him stare out at the vast nothingness stretched out in front of them, his hair rippling in the wind. The lonely sight triggers an ache somewhere deep within herself, something wistful and full and beautiful. It's one of those ephemeral feelings that replays in odd loops, but she won't let that stop her from basking in its glory.

"Once upon a time, the boy would have probably jumped," Soul admits, searching the sky. It's direct, genuine, and the most open he's ever been with her. "But somehow he got stronger and didn't let those feelings kill him. He survived, and he doesn't really remember how he managed that, even if he's still doing it. I bet the girl could relate, right?"

Maka feels her face crumple, cheeks hot with tears. Funny how she can only think clearly when she hasn't slept for almost twenty-four hours, Soul filling every moment with his apologetic touches, ones that seem to stay seared on her skin even when he's a few feet away.

Of course she understands what he means. _She's_ the one with the faulty memories, with no recollection of her mama's perfume, or the stories papa would read to her, or how she ended up on the orphanage's doorstep with a blistering headache. She can't help but think that this was the reason he dragged her out here, so he could add this aside to their story.

"Mhm…" When she gulps, it feels like she's swallowing glass.

"So, I think it sounds right that the girl doesn't remember. Maybe she doesn't need to. I don't think horrors like that are supposed to stay with us. It would be too much to carry around."

She can feel her heart breaking. Her face is wet, her legs wobbly.

"Yeah…. so you don't have to tell Wes anything, I'll be there." He brings his leg back onto the ship, leaning against the railing instead, beckoning her. "Want to come up here with me?"

She could, but she's not done crying, and she's not ready for him to see her like this just yet.

X

"My, what a vision of beauty," Wes Evans drawls when Soul and Maka finally step onto land days later. She meets his outstretched hand, biting down on her lip to restrain a semi-charmed, amused giggle while he kisses her hand and bows down. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maka."

"I've heard so many wonderful things," she laughs.

Wes's face is nothing but shock. "You don't say! And - _oh_ , who's this precious thing?"

"This is Blair. Say 'hi,' Blair!"

"I'm here, too," a disgruntled Soul grumbles behind them, dragging over their luggage.

Wes looks over Maka's head. "Hello, dear brother! Come closer so I can kiss you, too. I was worried – our wonderful parents thought you had run away. They had no idea you had left early."

In the split second of silence, Maka can tell Soul is rolling his eyes behind her, that he's contorting his mouth. "Nevermind."

The brothers' reunion isn't the big emotional event she imagined from how reverently Soul speaks about his brother when he isn't busy holding a grudge against his parents. The two men approach each other, shake hands, and though Soul protests, Wes drags him into a bear hug that Soul returns briefly before pulling away, brushing off his coat like the contact dirtied it.

Wes leans in close to Maka as they make their way out of the station. "My little brother was born with a scowl, you see. But it's all an act. He's a softie."

Maka finds herself beaming at an unsuspecting Soul, who is cursing at the luggage, glad she seems to know Soul as well as someone who's known him since before Soul has known himself.

Ever the gentlemen, Wes leads them to the shiny car he drove in to pick them up, helps a star-struck Maka climb in, and strolls over to watch Soul accommodate their things in the trunk. Loading it should only take three seconds, but the two men linger. Maka knows eavesdropping isn't polite – it's an invasion of privacy, a break in the trust between herself and Soul. But no matter how much she tries to tune out the world, she hears Wes say in a regretful, muffled voice, "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you from our parent's decisions."

When she dares to peek behind her, Wes has a comforting hand on Soul's shoulder, and Soul's heartbreak is written all over his face.

X

Wes Evans stands a few inches taller than Soul, laughs more openly, speaks his mind eloquently, and never slouches. These comparisons are made by Soul to Maka in a resentful mutter while Wes gives them a tour of his house on the hill. It's much too big for a bachelor who loves to entertain and go for walks in the city, Wes explains – all of which Soul points out are stark differences to him.

"Soul, _shhh_ ," she scolds out of the side of her mouth as Wes shows them the view from the balcony. "You're not your brother. Stop being so hard on yourself."

There Soul's hand goes again, rubbing the back of his neck instead of finding hers. He purses his lips but stops the rant – at least aloud. From the way the muscles by his temples twitch as his brother raves about the art pieces on the walls, Maka can only imagine all the ways he's berating himself.

She wants to smack him upside the head and follow it up with a kiss to the check. But one of those is inappropriate. At this point, she's not sure which.

The eldest Evans brother is a business tycoon. Like father, like son. The recent plunge in the stock market seemed to have affected everyone in the world except the Evans family. Maka had felt out of place at the Evans estate, and Wes's house is no exception. Even her hair is disheveled and gross in comparison to the new-looking mop the servant in the kitchen is using when they walk through. Wes treats her like royalty, going out of his way to open doors, bow, and announce her presence when they enter a room where a maid is cleaning.

Maka hides her red cheeks. "You don't have to do that."

"Nonsense," Wes booms. The louder he is, the more sullen Soul becomes. Watching him fade into the background, less noticeable than wallpaper, makes Maka's heart sink. Wes apparently detects this change, too, because he leads them to the other end of the house, where a piano sits in a second living room. "Play for us, little brother."

"I only play at concerts and in empty music halls when I practice," comes Soul's automatic reply.

"You're still doing that? Brother, music is to be enjoyed. It's not just a chore."

"He played something called Jazz!" Maka pipes in, reaching out to squeeze Soul's arm. "He was really good at it too, everyone loved it."

Wes's pride fills the room. "Really? You _never_ stray from classical, like the good son our parents wanted! You should play some Jazz for us right now, little brother."

But Soul is dead set on upholding his self-imposed rules. Wes frowns, adjusts his rolled up sleeves, and shows Maka to her room while Soul drifts away to sulk.

"I hope you're comfortable enough to make yourself at home, Miss Maka." Wes leans against the doorframe while Maka takes in the four poster canopy bed and silky window curtains, awed and brushing off the feeling that in a different life she lived in a similar luxury. "Please excuse my brother's childish behavior."

Maka plumps down onto the bench at the end of the four poster bed. "It's fine. I'm used to his mood swings."

"He's an emotional one. Most musicians are. He wears his hopes and dreams on his sleeves but pretends not to care about anything. And then he implodes from the pressure of it all." Of course Wes knows his brother. This all sounds familiar. "He's what you call 'emotionally constipated'."

Laughing rejuvenates her. "Thanks, Wes. I'll remember that."

With a little satisfied smirk, Wes excuses himself, coming back a fraction of a second later to remind her dinner's at six. Maka bathes, picks a semi-presentable dress to wear from her carry-on, starts drafting a letter to Blake, and carefully constructs a nest for Blair to sleep in after they're done playing with a ball of yarn. The whole rooms aches with Maka's longing to find Soul and yell and and cry and run her fingers through his hair and make herself a permanent part of him.

But she has discipline and doesn't do any of it.

Sitting beside him at the dinner table doesn't help.

Wes is an excellent conversationalist – Maka is sure Soul is narrating a self-defeating story of how he's never said a coherent thing in his life because Wes hoarded all the ideal inheritable qualities. She wants to 'accidentally' kick Soul but instead smiles and nods while Wes delves into the Evans family's current state of affairs.

"Ah, but see, Miss Maka, I'm successful on paper, but I'm a failure according to my beloved parents." He heaves a fake ashamed sigh, pursing his lips. "I've never married. I'm in my thirties - a decrepit old man."

Maka leans forward as if to wrap him in a protective hug. Unfortunately, the table is between them, but she's not one to hold back her caring instincts. "You still have time to find someone!"

"No, and that's quite fine. I've never been in love." The man shrugs and it reminds her so much of Soul that she swells with the ache of missing him even though he's right beside her, quietly listening. "I don't mind not being married, but you must know that appearances are everything to my parents, Miss Maka. Tell me, do you dream of marrying someday?"

Hopefully her cheeks don't give her away – they're burning up like a lit candle. Admitting that spending the last few weeks traveling across the world with Soul felt a lot like being married. That partnership aspect of having someone to both rely on and care for _must_ be what holds a marriage together, but since she only hazily remembers her parents' marriage, she doesn't know. Memories of her mama and papa dancing like newlyweds clashes with those of them red-faced and yelling about cheating and lying; Maka doesn't know how both accounts could be true.

All that aside, she can't _not_ think of Soul when she thinks of the future. He's not her other half, like most books she reads depict romances, but her confidant, supporter - her _soulmate_. With him she feels more secure, like she's finally come home to a place she's never been to before but wants to stay forever. Only Soul can infuriate her to the point of wanting to pull her hair out and also provoke fever dreams of pulling _his_ hair while her teeth gently bite down on his neck.

It would be a lie to say she's never thought of being married to Soul. They've been asked too many times for her _not_ to imagine it. Denying that little voice in the back of her head would be criminal, damning even. It's been whispering sweet nothings at her about waking up next to Soul every day until she doesn't wake up ever again, of being a family with _him_. But Maka's a smart girl – the future is uncertain, and who knows where they'll be when this trip is over?

Soul's already showing signs of pushing her away as it is. She can feel it beginning to boil as the night wears on.

"I'd like to get married one day," she says, sucking in a breath.

Wes, satisfied with her answer, looks over to Soul. "What about you? Have you changed your mind about marriage?"

Maka dares to flint her eyes over to him. He's slouched in his chair, sunken low with his arms crossed, nonchalant. "… It doesn't matter anymore."

The vying look the brothers share makes Maka feel like she's both intruding on a moment and left out of an important conversation. Soul avoids eye contact with her for the remainder of the dinner, excusing himself in a rush after his third slice of apple pie. Even in heels, Maka is fast enough to catch up to him, not sure what's going to come out of her mouth – she has _so_ much to say. She wants to sleep beside him because she misses the way he curls up with his cheek against her back, and she wants to shake him until he reveals all his secrets.

Something like a mixture of those two impulses slips out when she grabs his wrist: "Wait a minute, wait for me – what's going on?"

There is regret in his eyes. "Nothing."

"Liar," she says easily, squeezing him tighter. "You've been upset ever since we arrived, and I know it has something to do with your parents. Is there something I can do to help?"

"You could let me go."

Not _this_ again. She's already lived through this - _they've_ made up. It's not fair that they keep going backwards.

Maka doesn't know what tugs at her heartstrings more: Soul's resolve in saying that, or that he turns on his heel and walks away without looking back when she loosens her grip.

X

Hurt clings to her like suffocating lint, a headache creeping on as she holds her breath, trying not to cry. It wouldn't fix anything. She won't weep, no, because that would make her feel more alone, so she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut. She's simultaneously missing Soul and cursing his name when there's an unexpected knock on the door, making her yank the covers over her head and hiss like Blair would if she weren't busy sleeping at the foot of the bed.

Of course it's Soul. They can't seem to stay apart.

"Maka?"

She bites her tongue.

"Can I come in?"

If she bites down any more, she might draw blood.

"I'm sorry…"

'Headstrong' is a word that's been used too many times to describe her, but this time, she's the exact opposite. One thing about having Soul in her life is she can't bottle up her feelings as well she used to. It's both a gift and a nuisance. Before she can decide to upkeep her resolve to harden her heart, her feet are hitting the embellished carpet, taking her to the door. She throws the it open and dives into the hallway, head snapping either way before spotting him five feet away to her left, staring.

" _You_!" she whisper-screams. "You're – you're _rude_ and hurtful and I don't deserve to be treated like a stranger!"

"I'm an idiot," he groans, holding his arms out. "Maka, I'm - well... Oh _God_ , I don't know - I'm all over the place. I don't know how to say this, but-" He stops like he's in pain, like he might cry. It's fascinating. "Do you trust me?"

She clenches her jaw, nodding begrudgingly although she wants to say, "You can't leave and keep coming back, that's not how it works. Don't come back if you can't stay."

But none of that's true - she'd only be lying to herself. She wants to keep him, even if at times his closeness is fleeting.

Soul winces, probably reading her thoughts like a music score. "There's something my parents are making me do. I don't know how to stop it."

"Tell me."

"It'll make sense at the ball, when my story's finished. I promise." He puts his hands on his head, resigned. "If you still want to hear it, that is…"

While her anger is fading, her feelings for him aren't - they're overwhelming, and grant her patience. She holds her breath, counts to five forwards and backwards, and lets the hurt go. "I'm not going anywhere, Soul. I'm right here. Whatever secrets you have, I want to hear them."

She knows it's not even a fraction of the truth – she wants to know everything about Soul, even the insignificant things like what his favorite number is, or if his lips are as warm as his hands, but right now it's past midnight and they could be dreaming together.

He nods once to seal the ceasefire.

Maka is a firm believer in superstitions and never going to bed angry. Even in her sleep she hasn't been without Soul the last couple of weeks. Maybe he's a habit. It's not that she's lonely, or scared in this strange, big, empty house, but missing Soul won't let her sleep. It's like her skin knows he's close and her nerve endings are crying out for him.

"Come sleep with me?"

Maybe it's not right. They're in his brother's house, rumors will surely spread like they did on the ship, and they have no excuses to fall back on for sharing a bed. And their problems aren't settled. But still, Maka leads them to the guest bed, their footsteps soft like they're asking the ground to keep their secret.

Soul's arms around her feels so right. She closes her eyes to his murmurings of _sorry sorry sorry sorry_ in her ear, and she's already gone before she can whisper back that he owes her too many explanations to count.

Maybe it's the memory loss. Or that she has too many soft spots for him.

X

New York city is bustling, chaotic, and beautiful. Maka falls in love with its aura just as she's reminded why Soul's beauty is unparalleled. He sits back and watches her with a hesitant, dreamy look while she gasps at the tuxedos at the boutiques Wes chauffeurs them to.

"Soul, our whole purpose for coming into the city was to get you something to wear for the ball," Wes says sternly. When the only response he receives is Soul rolling his eyes in a half-teasing way, he goes on to say, "What are you planning to wear, if not something new?"

"That pinstrip-"

Wes makes a retching noise that makes Maka giggle. "Dear Lord, don't do that! It's wretched."

"It's a cool suit. I'm wearing it."

"No… no, no." Wes starts pacing back and forth. He could burn a trail in the flooring with how intently he's brainstorming. "Please don't wear that. It would bring shame to the family, and you know how great our reputation is. How about this nice tux? It's dark blue and would go swell with your red bowtie-"

Soul's expression doesn't betray any emotion. "'Shame to the family'? You're _kidding_ , right?"

Smirking, Wes winks, nodding his head but responding with a high pitched, "Don't sass me, young man."

"Yes, _Mother_." Soul digs his hands deeper into his coat pockets and slumps into the chair he's been lounging in while Wes and Maka fawned over the clothing. "But really Wes, I'm an adult and I want to wear what I want to wear."

The look of horror that mars Wes's face only intensifies the hilarity of the moment. This must be what having a family is like. The brotherly banter only reminds Maka of Blake and she's upset all over again, overcome with missing him and Shibusen and even Auntie. She's drawn out of the misery when Wes mentions her name: "Soul, you can't wear that tux to the ball. It'll embarrass Miss Maka."

She snaps out of it. "Oh – oh, uh, how would it…?"

Wes looks between them, perplexed. "I imagine that as his date, you'd want him to wear something presentable."

Blood rushes to her head and she can only think about the way Soul doesn't look at her, the

way he goes still. Her mouth doesn't seem to work anymore, but she hears herself say, "We're - oh, we're not exactly going together like that."

"We're going together as friends," Soul interjects, poker face activated.

"Oh. Okay," Wes says, clearly not believing it.

X

"I didn't know you were still taking me to the ball," Maka says boldly a little while later when Wes is being fitted for a dashing new tux. Nothing had caught his eye while shopping, so the next best thing was to have something custom-made. The house is silent save for the clamor in Wes's dressing room. In the hallway right outside of it, Maka sits on the bench, back pressed up against the wall. Her feet don't touch the floor, and she sways her legs back and forth slowly while she and Soul marinate in their charged silence.

"I mean, if you still want to go with me, I'd love to take you." He's leaned against the wall nonchalantly across from her, a leg bent and foot rested on the wall. It's the exact pose a troublemaker would strike. Maka thinks of nothing but marching right over and pulling him down by the collar and sliding her mouth over his until all of his secrets are out in the open.

The thought is highly improper. She pushes it away and smooths down her dress over her thighs. "I don't know how to dance, much less waltz."

Soul laughs for the first time since they arrived, and it has her blood burning - she's missed it. "I should have known."

"Hmmph! It's not because I'm not good at it. I've just never had the chance," she justifies, defensive. Soul would never look down on her for not knowing something, but she's been on the edge living at Wes's and being surrounded by fine china and extravagant centerpieces. She can't help but not belong, can't help feeling defensive.

Oh, she's missed Soul's gentleness. He's as soft as silk, as endearing as a love letter. Something about his willingness to help her makes her heart swell. "That's okay. I'm out of practice too. I could, uh, teach you?"

It wouldn't be smart. He has demons who have already decided to keep him and Maka apart, to keep them within sight but not within reach. Going back and forth, turning on and off – it's damaging, it's killing her slowly and quietly. It's like drowning in sand. In this case, Soul is her sand. Maka doesn't think she can get enough. Even with the signs that he's becoming something transitory, she doesn't care about consequences as long as she can get her fix.

And of course, the adventurous daredevil in her can't let the challenge slip away.

She stands up and closes the space between them, holding out her hand. "Dance with me?"

"Right now?" His cool is gone. It's her nearness that gets him, and she knows it and uses it as leverage.

"Mhmm. The ball is in a few weeks, right? We need all the time we can get."

Soul looks at her, doesn't look at her, digs his hands out of his pockets, the internal struggle apparent on his face. She wishes her bravery extended to telling him how she feels about him, how shutting her out makes her feel abandoned all over again. Longing rumbles within her, deprived and malnourished, desperate to reclaim what's not quite yet lost - _Soul_.

Heat floods her like smoldering lava when he carefully rests a palm on her hip, his fingers lacing between hers. The whole room shudders with her as Soul asks her to follow him because he's leading the dance, asks her to trust him. His hands are soft, never harsh. There is no music, no sound, nothing but gravity drawing them closer.

A distraction. She needs one. "Will there be music at the ball?"

"Mhmmm," he hums. "An orchestra."

"And they're going to play Jazz?"

No, no - there's different types of music, he explains, and it blow's Maka's mind. She squints at him as they dance, at his long lashes, at his lips, at the memory bubbling to the surface from the depths of her mind. In it, gold tiles gleam underneath her feet, and when she looks up to admire the glittering ceiling she finds she's still looking down at the floor.

She blinks, reality coming back into focus. "Is there going to be dancing? And people?"

"Yeah, it's a huge social gathering. Okay, go ahead and twirl when I raise my arm – that's too fast, Maka-"

"And waltzing is slow, not crazy fast," she finishes with him, not missing a beat. Her head hurts a little, like she's just had whiplash. "I feel like this has happened before. It's like deja vu."

The world goes upside down as he dips her. "Good."

X

"So now none of my dresses are good enough for this stupid party?"

Mouth hanging open, Soul freezes.

Standing akimbo, Maka taps her foot impatiently, staring him down with a sharp scowl. Part of her knows she's being irrational. Of course her hand-me-down dresses with the mismatched buttons and three-times mended seams aren't good enough for Spirit Albarn's ball. It's a commemoration to his dead daughter, for God's sake - dressing to the nines is to be expected, and anything less would be disrespectful.

Still, all the talk about Wes and Soul's parents have instilled paranoia in her, even though they can't see her from across the world. Appearances are everything to the people in the Evans's social circle, and it's a fact that she and Soul don't outwardly mesh well, what with her self-cut hair and his expensive vests. Is he suggesting taking her out shopping because he's ashamed of her scuffed, uneven heels?

Either way, she has to find things to be mad about, because she forgets - it's the combination of her memory loss and her feelings for him. And they still haven't talked about his last outburst. Between Wes dropping in on them when they think they're alone, and all the ongoing preparation for the event, there's been very little time to argue.

She almost misses it. It seems like they get along the best when they're in the middle of a shouting match, fighting to be heard, to meet the other in the middle.

"Maka, _I'm_ not even good enough for this stupid party," he reasons. "No one is. But Spirit doesn't care about stuff like that. He just wants his daughter back."

That does an excellent job of shutting Maka up. It rings a bell - she can relate. Like Spirit, she wants so many things back - _too_ many things.

Feeling melancholic, she shimmies into a sweater vest Soul tosses her way because it's too warm to wear the coat he had given her, and they step out into the sun together, the clouds rolling by overhead like spilled paint. For the nth time since she arrived, Maka can't help but notice how different life is here, how unreal it is to be here with Soul, how there's something off about him.

"It's weird not digging through snow to get somewhere," she offers, awkward in their silence when they're finally navigating the sidewalks in the city.

"Yeah, Shibusen is right next to the North Pole. I hate it," he says, gruff and resentful.

"Even the air feels different."

"You can actually breathe without your sinuses drying. It's incredible."

"I agree. And the people are different here, too."

"Probably because no one's freezing their bal-"

"And even you're different, Soul. You've been in an _awful_ mood, even more awful than what your worst usually is!"

Stopping dead in his tracks, he shoves his hands into his pockets. "This is how I always am."

Maka turns on her heel to face him, the ends of her pigtails whipping her across the cheeks. "And you still haven't told me why you're being so sensitive lately."

"Because everything at the ball has to _go right_ ," he sighs, a tired look haunting his eyes.

Pedestrians pass by them, some barely running into them, others firing them annoyed looks, none of them picking up on the run-down desperation weighing on Soul.

_Oh_. She hadn't expected this type of vulnerability from him. "Why? I know performing makes you nervous, but it's okay if you make mistakes. Isn't that what music is?"

"No… not really, Maka." He does reward her efforts with an appreciative smile, the kind that softens all his worry lines. "I don't care about that for once."

"Talk to me - I'm right here, Soul. What's on your mind?"

One of his many talents include talking without making sense. He starts rambling about his parents and how they wouldn't allow pets in the house, how they decided Wes would inherit the family business without asking what he wanted first. It morphs into a disconnected rant about Spirit and a girl who was small but gentle in her stubbornness. She had bright eyes, a shape and color Soul had never seen before and won't forget, because he remembers too well.

It's a shame that he can't let go of his memories.

The ball isn't anything like deja vu for him.

Every year, Spirit indulges in too many drinks, crawls all over the furniture and his guests, crying, anguished, not caring that no one cares. People are cold, flocking into the man's house with fake sympathetic faces but gossiping behind his back. The more money people have, the less human it makes them - that's what Soul mutters darkly, the sharpness of his mouth curious to Maka.

"It makes me sick. This is the last year I'm going," he sums up.

Maka can't keep up, getting stuck on the details of the story, unable to read between the lines. "Why are people so terrible?"

Soul laughs in a bitter way. "So many people have tried to take advantage of Spirit... It's because he tells everyone that he thinks his daughter is alive, and that one day she'll show up at the ball. Everyone thinks he's a little bit mad, but he's rich and sloppy with his money, so there you go."

They're five blocks down before Maka realizes she has her arm around his, not remembering when it happened. Her resolve to stay away until he explained his outbursts lasted all but five seconds. She curses at herself for not being able to think about two things at once.

The bell chimes above their heads as Soul leads them into a small boutique crowded with dolled-up mannequins and an assortment of feathery and fluffy and puffy dresses. Maka knows better than to let go of his arm, than to interrupt his monologue. He's opening up, telling her a secret.

"And the worst part is, I think I'm a bad person, too, like those people."

She turns her head so fast she thinks she's strained her neck. "You're not like that, Soul-"

He shrugs like it's nothing. "There've been lots of time where con artists show up and pretend to be Spirit's daughter. They just want his money. It's hard to see."

"Oh," she breathes, overstimulated by their surroundings. There's something shouting at her, but it's too deep inside in her to be heard, and as she instinctively looks down to the ceiling and expects to still be seeing the floor, she feels less real.

It's deja vu all over again, expecting their overbright surroundings to turn dark and scary, for him to fade away. Maybe he already is.

"I mean, it's not like I need money… but there's something else I want, and if it turns out I'm right, that can't happen. But if I _don't_ do it, I'd hate myself, too… I just don't want to be a bad person."

"You're not. You're _infuriating_ , but not bad."

Soul doesn't react to her joke. "Have you been listening, Maka? Do you understand?"

Blinking at him, she can't help but want to smooth his hair out of his eyes and maybe shut them, because they're making it hard for her to think. "Of course!"

He frowns, and it makes her feel guilty for being too cheerful, for not being all here.

"So, each year, Spirit throws this ball for his daughter and hopes she'll hear about it and show up," she reiterates, to prove that she's had his undivided attention.

"Yeah... And this year I'm taking _you_."

Her eyes flicker to a pale pink dress hanging right behind him, admiring how it scintillates in the light. "Mhm, and we're going to dance together. You promised."

"Yeah… I always keep my promises."

"I know," she smiles, unsettled with how silence is taking him away from her. "Each time we dance together will be like the first time."

Listless, Soul slides his thumbs into his pockets, barely nodding. There's a fragile tranquility between them, one Maka needs to protect, even if it feels like they're holding their breaths as they sink into sand. Soon they'll be up to their noses, begging for air, but right now there's a disconnect as they stare at each other, the silence drowning them.

Focusing is hard.

He's looking at her, careful, his eyes dark in this brightness. "So, what do you think? About the ball?"

It's too crowded in this boutique. The mannequins give off an eerie vibe, never moving but closing in on them just like the thoughts in her head that are doing everything to avoid thinking about Spirit Albarn, who sounds just as lost as she is. "It's sad, Soul. It makes me sad. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Soul turns so she can't see his face, and it hurts her more than it should. It feels like he's closing one of those doors inside him, deciding she's not ready to see what's there. When he spins back around, he's cool and composed again, handing her the dress she's been eyeing. "I thought you liked fairy tales?"

"I do. They're my favorite… but they're not real. Some shouldn't be real."


	7. His eyes should be bright with all their darkness

The ball is glorious – ethereal even, magnificent, exquisite, sublime. It's like she's finally wide awake in her dreams, finally flesh and blood and _real_.

Alone, Maka stands in the midst of its beauty, soaking it all in, looking for Soul. His eyes should be bright with all their darkness, searching for her too, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other when they finally make eye contact.

But all she can see is is a memory come to life. Gold tile, brilliantly gold tile, stretches from tall wall to wall, and finely dressed guests mill around on the gleaming floor, chatting and dancing and singing like there's nothing else in the world left to do. There's so much _space_ – the ceiling glitters high above, and when Maka looks up and blinks, the gems that hang from the chandelier shimmer like they're painted with stardust.

It's deja vu all over again.

Something tells her she's been here before, has lived through this moment once a long time ago in a different life. Instinctively, she focuses on the guests' faces instead of giving into the mansion's hypnotizing intricacies. She squints into the sea of people but can't see anyone familiar – no long haired woman waving at her, no redheaded man's laughter rising up above the indistinct chattering.

Maybe it's the disconnect, but she doesn't see anyone like that. It seems they only exist in her periphery.

But Maka is an optimist through and through, floating around like a ghost stuck in a loop, not certain what she's searching for but confident she'll know when she finds it.

The irony is Maka forgets she's lost until she bumps into Soul minutes later. They don't collide this time, the other ending up sprawled on the floor. It's more of a gentle meeting, a merging, and she knows it's Soul before she turns and meets his strange eyes. After all this time together, she still hasn't put a name to their color, but it doesn't matter because they have years ahead of them to learn new things about each other. Maybe even forever.

Now she's just glad he's here, wishes he'll always be here.

"Hi," she says, smiling, reaching out to adjust his crooked bowtie. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't be able to sneak away from prepping for your performance."

Shyly and quietly, he shakes his head. "Nah, I promised I'd be right beside you the whole time, didn't I?"

Somehow, she can never forget how beautiful his eyes are, how expressive and rich and mesmerizingly dark in the right light… like _rubies_. It clicks, it fits. That's it, that's the word! It repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats _and repeats_ in the background of her mind and doesn't recede with the tide until it's lost forever. It's here to stay.

A surge of adoration sweeps her away as she offers him her hand. "Dance with me?"

Perfection is how Soul's fingers fill the spaces between her own easily, free of indecision or delay, his other hand smoldering on her hip. "Thought you'd never ask."

He holds her close but not close _enough_ , his breath warm on her brow as his chest rises and falls, and greediness isn't a flattering color on her but she's deeply sick and tired of space separating them. Bravery has nothing to do with Maka never breaking eye contact as she swathes her arms around his neck, brushing up next to him. It's inspired by a quiet longing to be _together_ , even if she's not ready to confront the reason why.

His voice is low, so _low_. "Maka?"

"Hmm?"

Staring, he melts into a faraway smile. "Never mind."

A musician like him needs no cue to start moving – they're poetry in motion after all, and despite his love-hate relationship with music, he's always said everything needs sound. What would life be without it? So it's only natural that he leads them toward the middle of the dance floor in rhythmic swirls, Maka's counting _one two three, one two three, one two three_ melting into nothingness as he hums under his breath.

Quickly, it becomes another thing about him that Maka finds fascinating, and he raises a brow at her pinched smile.

"You can _sing_ , too," she accuses softly. She should have known – he's blind to his own talents, and this newfound detail is just another one of those secrets about him she'll have to keep discovering for herself.

Guilty as charged, he purses his lips. "I mean, it's just humming. Nothing special."

She squeezes his shoulder. "No, don't say that. You're… you're so talented it's almost unbelievable. Why do you always hide?"

"I'm just average," he insists, and it isn't him being humble at all. "I never liked sharing myself, because I think there's something wrong with me. I might even be a bad person, too, but I haven't decided yet..."

The self-loathing in him is just unbelievable to Maka, who can't coax him into spilling what atrocity he's done to condemn himself in this way. Never one to be defeated, Maka insists he's his own worst enemy and that she'll fight him to defend his honor, that there are things besides his humming that she finds beautiful.

There's an innocent gentleness in him that can't be captured in words, though – she lists the moments instead, like how he returned her scarf to her, the tender way he held Blair, his patience when he held _her_ on the train and consoled her when she thought she had lost her ring. It's all there in her head, coming out in a torrent she isn't ready to succumb to, the tip of her nose probably colored red.

Lately, a semi-permanent wrinkle has been etched between his brows, and now it's even more pronounced as he sighs, resigned but a little comforted. Reassured.

"If you say so, Maka. Thanks."

All Maka can do is stare at his lips, fixated on the arch of his cupid's bow and wondering how many times he's gnawed his bottom lip between his teeth. Her own tingles sympathetically, wondering if it's just a nervous habit or if he's imagining the same things that are hazily floating through her mind.

"There's nothing beautiful about me, but you – _God_ , you're wonderful," he whispers near her ear, caught somewhere between reality and a dream. He gently moves her away from him, and it isn't until she realizes he wants her to spin underneath his outstretched arm that the split second of distress recedes. Leaving him is nothing to be afraid of because she knows he'll be right there, waiting for her so they can fall into their tempo once again, whirling idly across the gold tiles.

"Really?" Maka asks, the world temporarily off its axis as she twirls.

" _Really_ really," he laughs, cheeks flushed. "You're something else, you know that, right?"

The lights are bright and cast everything in a lucid glow, doing nothing to hush Maka's curiosity about the ruby of his eyes. He feels unbelievingly solid beneath her hands, overwhelmingly real, nothing like a cross between a daydream and a memory like he had been when they first met. She should untangle her hand from his and close his eyes because he's making her light headed, woozy, high off the steady cadence he's picked out for them.

But she just can't. It would require letting go, and she still hasn't mastered that art of losing.

She wants to say something about how he's more than her best friend, more than a partner. But it's lost as they drift away to the edge of the ballroom, into a more secluded corner where the light is dimmer, and all she's left with is Soul.

They've stopped dancing but her head's still spinning.

"I have to get ready to play your song," he explains, not looking away from her, not moving.

The moment he disentangles his hands from her is ironic – he's letting go to let her in. She'll hear his music for the first time again. Another one of those doors inside him will be wide open for her to cherish what's inside.

"Soul, before you go," she says, catching him by the edge of his tux's sleeve as he turns, "I want to tell you something."

Lips stitched shut, he nods.

"I- well, I…"

Oh, but _how_ is she going to say she loves him if she's not sure what love is? It could definitely be the homesick feeling she gets when they're not holding hands. Maybe. There's also the possibility that she might never stop falling in love with him, and if that's the case, how deep is deep enough? When will she know for sure? Maka can't imagine caring about him any more than she already does, but impossible is nothing as long as she has Soul.

He's a permanent feeling in an otherwise momentary world.

All she knows is that he's high on the list of things she doesn't want to lose.

And that's just her problem – letting go. Things are fleeting, momentary, and if she admits she wants a permanent part of his life he might close up subconsciously, because he's guarded and doesn't believe he deserves nice things. They've come so far since they first met. No longer are they strangers playing cat and mouse at a bakery, pretending not to stare. Maka wants to see what they could be, if they stay together.

The future is so far away, though. And he's _so_ close.

"Good luck," she ends up saying. "I'll be here when you get back. You owe me another dance."

Worry softens his face. "Okay… Promise you won't close your eyes?"

"Of course."

He looks thoughtful. "I have to finish telling you my story when I get back… but I hope you like my song."

And then he wanders away, leaving Maka standing there wringing her wrists out of nervous habit, fighting off the feeling that in another life he said the same thing but never returned. It's déjà vu all over again, watching him go, remembering that she loses things easily, terribly easily.

Around her, the dancers dwindle to a stop like the figures on a music box when the music dies, their faces turning to the stage where a black piano shines quietly under the spotlight. The lights dim when she least expects it, footsteps echo on the floor – though she just saw him, Maka almost doesn't recognize Soul as he steps onto the stage, hair parted to the side and brushed back, sophisticated and handsome in his tuxedo. Like the gentleman he is, he bows, staring into the crowd (hopefully looking for her), before taking his place on the bench, his spine straight, taut.

There is suspenseful silence, like they're all getting tired of holding their breaths as his fingers hover over ivory, nothing but his fingers moving when he _does_ start to play. It's a lovely song, light and magical, a lullaby, the same concerto that drifts through her head when she's dreaming – the familiarity of it all has her reaching for her necklace for comfort.

A growing sense of dread tells her she's about to lose him _again_. She expects Soul to fade, fade away while the overbright party turns dark and scary, but music is the only thing that exists right now.

To her left, high on the second floor that looks down onto the ballroom, there's a red-haired man softly crying. Maka hadn't noticed him before, but his long locks look like her… _papa's_. Now her blood's pounding in her ears and it's hard to hear her own thoughts when there aren't people screaming in the background - that's how it was in her dream, anyway.

Maka blinks when Soul plays the last note, as adoring applause explodes from all around, and he bows one last time and hurries offstage. Distantly, her head throbs, and the people coming to life around her only makes her dizzier, makes her feel like she's confused and lost all over again like when she was six –

And like last time, someone is looking for her.

"Found you," Soul says right in her ear, warm hand on her arm. "What'd you think of my song – you look like you're about to pass out! Are you okay?"

"I think? I'm so anxious – I feel like I've been here before? More like, something like this happened a long time ago?"

When she looks at him, he's wincing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, there was a ball and it was my birthday and…"

One thing about Soul's eyes are that they're expressive, dark with warmth. Right now they're laced with concern and _regret_. "And then what, Maka?"

It's a long story, and she's told it before so there's no need to repeat it. She had thought it was only a dream. Once upon a time there was a boy with strange eyes who she tumbled into when she was dancing by herself, and they danced together until he went away to face his fears. Maka never did find out if he was successful, but now she's thinking she doesn't need to be asleep to find out.

The truth is on the tip of her tongue.

"That's just it, Soul - I'm not good at remembering. I can't ever remember people's faces, but I remember how they made me feel." She gasps, holding on to his shoulders and to the foggy memories unfolding in her mind.

He's nodding encouragingly, but he's frowning.

"I remember in colors," she explains. "I'm good with details that don't matter, like what I was wearing or what the ceiling looked like. I remember everything around me except for _people_ , and that's what I miss the most."

Soul only looks at her. The faraway madness in his eyes doesn't scare her.

"I remember sounds too, sort of. But I know for sure that the song the boy played sounded like the one you just did!"

"Yeah," he says, lips barely moving.

"I'm going crazy, Soul. Mad. I've always felt like we've met before, in a dream. And you feel like that too, right?"

"I guess." Gulping, he takes her hands in his, blinking too fast. "What else do you remember?"

It's all a blur for Maka. "Oh, umm… there was a red-haired man. Soul! There's always a redhaired man in my dreams, or my memories – now I can't even tell them apart."

There's something odd in the way Soul can't look away from her. "Spirit has red hair. He was on the second floor… You probably saw him crying, right? Maka?"

Here comes a thought: she's broken, neither here nor there. She's fleeting, not meant to hold onto things for long. "There's something wrong with my head, Soul. I'm always confused without knowing it."

_Shh_ , he tells her, but all she hears is her heart bumping because his hands are cupping her face, gentle and patient. "You remind me of someone who was lost," he says again, eyes glassy.

"You've told me that before. We have a lot in common." Each time she blinks, her vision gets a little bit more watery.

"No, no… well, we do, but that's not what I mean. See - remember when I told you Spirit's daughter's name started with an M? Well, her name was Maka. He's looking for someone whose name is Maka."

Her eyes go wide. "But Soul – _I'm_ someone named Maka. I think. You think _I'm_ the missing princess?"

It's not until he laughs that she realizes he's been holding back tears. His voice is shaky with the strain of pretending to be strong. "You definitely act like one."

Between Soul rubbing his thumbs on her cheeks, and her mind taking her back to a time when a red-headed man spun around and threw her into the air, nothing feels real to Maka. She's not sure if she can even trust herself to remember her dreams or memories, but she can trust Soul, right? Even if he's clearly unhappy, standing there like he's torn.

"You should go up the stairs and talk to Spirit," Soul says, letting go, guiding her to the staircase. "I saw him go into the study, so he's probably sitting in his chair. Go see him, and show him your necklace."

"Will you go with me?" she asks, but she knows instantly that this is just like her dream, that he's fading away. There's a reason all of this is like déjà vu, why it feels like she's finally broken the spell of her repeating dream.

Now she's past it, onto new territory. What does it mean?

Rubbing the small of her back as a goodbye, he gives her a pleading look. "Just go talk to him, okay? Prove me wrong."

"But I don't want to go. I want to stay with you."

It feels like he's pushing her away when he puts his hands into his pockets, motioning with his chin for her to climb the stairs without him. None of it makes complete sense – why hadn't Soul told her from the beginning? Why can't he come with her to see Spirit?

They've always been together. Does it have to be different this time?

"Wait for me?" she asks, a lump in her throat.

She's not convinced when he says yes, so she stares at his faint frown and wonders why he looks like they're going their separate ways. There's nothing to worry about because she'll always come back to him. Midway up the staircase, she glances over her shoulder and sees that he's still standing there, and it's all the reassurance she needs to move forward.

x

"Hello?"

There is darkness – not an abyss of course, but a gray scale of shadows and sorrows that don't want to be laid out to dry in the light. And there's a lot of warmth in the light, if the man would let it in. Maka is a shadow herself, hovering by the door while her silhouette crawls on the carpet toward him as he sits in the armchair by the window, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

She clears her throat. Better to get on with it, or else she'll lose her nerve and the tiniest bit of hope she has to find answers. "I was told you're looking for someone named Maka-"

"Yes, but you're not _my_ Maka," is his hollow reply, cut and dry to the point. "Please, just leave me alone."

Gulping hard, Maka wrings her wrists. "I'm not even sure my name's Maka. It's just something I barely remember."

"Great. That's a new one I've never heard before." The disbelief in his voice is poisonous. "Don't you people have better things to do than pretend to be my sweet little Maka?"

"Uhm – pardon me? I'm not sure what-"

" _Right_ , you don't know," he scoffs, muffled. "That's what they all say…"

Maka finds it hard to keep looking at him. He looks like a sad child. "'They'?"

The man doesn't bat an eye toward her and Maka doesn't blame him after hearing his life's story. A decade of girls parading in front of him and pretending to be someone he's desperately looking for has probably numbed him worse than if he fell asleep in a bathtub full of ice. What's more pathetic is Maka wants to cry – he's not the man from her misty dreams.

No, that Papa read to her at bedtime, played dolls with her, and threw her into the air at the ball on her birthday. If he ever frowned, it was only for a second, because his happy-go-lucky attitude couldn't be muted for too long. And he made Mama dissolve into a schoolgirl-ish smile even when they were in the middle of arguing.

That Papa was imperfectly perfect, as Mama would tell Maka whenever Papa hurt their feelings when he wouldn't come home sometimes, and this man in front of her is a different kind of mess.

He isn't Papa.

Still, though… beyond all reason, Maka has to talk to him. There _must_ be a reason he and the Papa from her dreams both have the same shade of red hair.

Maka takes a hesitant step inside the room, hands at her neck to reel the necklace out of where she tucked it into her dress. "Someone close to me told me I should show you this ring I have..."

Spirit sighs into his palms tiredly. He doesn't seem to care about her or anything else for that matter. He doesn't howl like a wolf at the moon, doesn't shriek. Years of being alone have ensured that he stifled his own pain and turned it into something more bearable. Maka knows this coping mechanism all too well, so she's not surprised when he asks her to leave, begs her to never talk to him again.

"If I keep looking for her, it'll probably kill me." He doesn't seem to care about that possibility either. He sounds like he hasn't slept in a lifetime. "My heart is exhausted. I never want to see another fake Maka for the rest of my life."

_Fake_. That's not the word Maka would use to describe herself. She's a lost girl without a last name, not a con artist scheming to profit off his grief. But forcing herself to fit the role of someone who's gone just to ease both of their burdens wouldn't remedy anything. Rationalizing it doesn't make the knot in her throat go away, though, and walking back out into the warmly lit hallway is too much strain for her eyes.

She squints and holds back cagy tears, hand on the staircase railing, thinking only one thing: she needs _Soul_.

His shoulders are strong and he'd gladly offer both of them for her to cry on, his arms welcoming and familiar, like home. Maybe he'd even sing to her if she asked, because she's losing yet another battle against crying and desperately needs a distraction. She must hold on to those tears until she finds him, but she's perpetually lost among the dancing couples who waltz around the ballroom, bumping into everyone _but_ Soul.

A faint whistling begins to ring in her head as she spins and spins and spins around in her search for a tall young man with strange eyes but not finding him, panic choking her -

In a blur of, Wes flies into her view, worry and horror marring his face. She can breathe again, can move again, hiking up her dress and weaving between guests to wordlessly follow him. She's not wrong to think he's looking for Soul, too, finally leading them to the balcony after a quick survey of the party.

Of course. Soul's not one to mingle with people, especially if he's calming down after performing. Maka's heart leaps a little at the sight of him leaning against the railing on one elbow, swirling the drink in his glass absentmindedly. She's a few beats behind Wes thanks to her uncomfortable heels, jealous that Wes reaches him first. Eavesdropping is a break of their trust but Maka can't articulate words – if she opens her mouth she might never stop calling for him.

"Soul," Wes says, the urgency in his loud whisper causing Soul to turn his head, place the glass down, and lean in to hear what his brother has to say. "I have to warn you – I just heard that Mother and Father are going to be here in a week, and they're not coming to listen to your music. They want a wedding."

Shoulders rounding with something like resigned exhaustion, Soul hangs his head. Maka stares at his mouth moving and imagines what it'd feel like on hers, imagines what the growl rumbling from his throat would feel like against hers. It's frustration at its finest to see him hold back, hiding inside himself.

Always the voice of reason, Wes goes on: "I think if you told them you don't want to marry Anya, they might listen."

Maka is fragile, like most precious, transitory things. It must be why she splinters a little, why her vision tunnels but she's still overstimulated by every little unimportant detail of the moment. The way Soul moves is intoxicating and unfair, his fists clenching at his sides, his lovely mouth snarling into scythe-like danger. All of a sudden he's a volatile collection of keen anger and pure, unapologetic _feeling_ she's always wanted to drown in except here she is, going glassy-eyed.

The injustice of it all stings.

"You're _engaged_?" She's not screaming, but she could be… if she let herself. Instead, it comes out as a lost whisper.

This time when she and Soul make eye contact, it's not like déjà vu at all. In her periphery, Wes's mouth is a perfect 'o' of nonplused shock while Maka walks right up to Soul, who looks like he's dead inside, like he wants to be buried alive.

"I'm sorry," is all he says, weary hands opening and closing at his sides.

It's all the confirmation Maka needs, but somewhere between hearing it and seeing it come out of his mouth, she's gone numb and can't logically put two and two together. It doesn't make sense. Soul had promised to stay by her side, hadn't he? He played a song for her, slept with his arm slung around her protectively, lead her across the world. While it's true that many people in her life have been fleeting, he isn't one of those, right?

His eyes are so very very _very_ beautiful, divine in every sense of the word.

"I'm an awful, selfish person," he repeats over and over again, and it all clicks, it _fits_. His secrets, his disillusion with his parents and marriage. It _fits._ He was just always just passing by, after all.

"Oh," she says. When she breathes, it feels like betrayal, like too much blood is rushing to her head and she's going to teeter and collapse to the ground, asphyxiated.

This isn't how it was supposed to go. She's not sure what she imagined because it was all just

fragments of _forever_ and _trust_ and quiet looks that made her heart do somersaults, but it definitely didn't include this brand of loss.

No, he wasn't supposed to be fleeting, but then again, he was never hers to begin with.

This time it's Soul who follows. Maka turns and marches back into the ballroom and out into the foyer, numb to the ugly looks she gets as she pushes her way between dancing couples and chattering groups.

"I'm not marrying her. I promise it's not what it looks like..." His voice is steady and so certain she almost believes in his rebelliousness. Or she wants to, anyway, because she hasn't mastered the art of losing quite yet.

"You're engaged," she repeats, testing how it fits in her mouth, how it rolls off her tongue. Surely if she says it enough it'll lose its meaning. That's it, that's what she'll do: chant it over and over _and over_ until she doesn't care that he's committed to someone else.

But one look at him and she knows it's useless.

Soul is still in denial. "I don't _love_ her, she's just some girl my parents decided I should marry when I was fourteen. It's an arranged marriage."

There it is. His parents are beyond awful. _He's_ awful too, lying, _cheating_. In an instant, she relives all of her mama's heartbreak and finally understands why her tiny family wasn't perfect.

This time, it comes out of Maka like thunder: "It doesn't matter if you love her or not. You're _engaged_! But you're always around _me_ and listening to _me_ and dancing with _me_ , and…" Her face crumbles in a graceless combination of hot tears and a miserable whimper. The ground beneath her seems to shake, but really, it's just her who's trembling uncontrollably, coming apart at the seams.

Soul reaches for her, she cringes and recoils against her instincts to accept his touch, and the way he screws up his face reminds her of someone who knows they're losing something irreplaceable. It's bittersweet. Maka can't trust any of it, not even when he chokes when he tries to speak.

She heaves, "I don't understand – why did you lie to me?"

When he opens his mouth, no words come out.

_Stop crying stop crying stop crying_ she begs herself. "And I believed you! You made me think we were going to be together forever!"

"We are!" He gulps, and she's mesmerized by the way his Adam's apple bobbles. "It'll just be me and you, like it has been-"

"We've been running away this whole time, haven't we?" Replacing heartbreak with anger is second nature to Maka, a survival skill. If she could stop hyperventilating, she could block out all her feelings, especially the ones for Soul. " _Haven't we_?"

"Maka-"

_Now_ she's yelling, screeching even, her words reverberating in the nearly empty space. Cheeks wet, she points a finger at him. "Tell me, Soul, tell me the truth!"

This time, he doesn't stuff his hands in his pockets or rub the back of his neck. He holds his hands out as a shield, as if she'd dig her nails into his throat if he lets his guard down. "… Yeah, I ran away. Anya was supposed to come with me on this trip for our honeymoon, but I booked the tickets in advance and asked you to come with me instead."

A high-pitched, murderous shriek catches in her throat, her chest constricting. Temples pounding, she can't see straight, can't hear anything except Soul spilling all of his secrets in a jumbled rant about how he never meant to return to the bakery after the first time they met. It was out of the way and he needed to get back to touring, as it served as one of the main reasons he had delayed the marriage this much. But he had felt drawn to see Maka again, because her pigtails were endearing and she had smiled at him like someone in the past did who gave him courage to perform in front of people.

And then something imploded inside of him, something critical and precious that helped him sort between right and wrong. Sometime between Maka cleaning the scratches on his face and sitting in the darkness of the music hall together, he had looked at her and decided he didn't want to be away from her, that he'd rather fight for his happiness than continue to be passive about life.

Blinking is dangerous - he might disappear in that second she can't see him. She blinks, feeling another wave of emotion on the horizon. "That's not very specific, Soul. Your feelings could have changed when we saw each other at the library, or when you walked me home."

"I know," he half-laughs, the last bit of it trailing off into a stifled whimper. "But it's my fault for feeling like this. I knew I was a goner the moment I saw you."

_A goner?_ She wants to ask - _badly_ , urgently - though it's spelled out clearly and has been for a while. Denial could kill them.

"Why didn't you tell me you were engaged? If I had known, I wouldn't have-"

Lord, she would have done everything differently. She wouldn't have tried to think of a name for the color of his eyes because she's sure the more she did that, the harder it became to look away, to let go. She would have kept herself at a safe distance. There would have been no bed sharing, no hand holding, no dancing.

She would have prepared to lose him.

It's not fair.

"You _lied_." It's all she can say. "You lied… you lied to me."

"I'm sorry, Maka-"

Too many thoughts come rushing in: the people on the ship who mistook them for newlyweds, Wes's reaction to them being 'just friends'. "Were you hoping you parents would cancel your marriage if they saw us together?"

Even guilt looks handsome on him. "I mean, I thought-"

She screams a little in her throat, cutting him off. _No_ , she'd rather not hear it. Nothing would make sense anyway. It must be the memory loss, the heartbreak.

"It felt too good to be wrong!" He takes a few steps toward her but she just backs away. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me-"

"Did you think it would work, though, Soul? That your parents would just let you be with a poor orphan girl with no last name?" It all fits – Wes had said their parents prioritized appearance above everything, hadn't he?

Now she's done it, now she's burst his bubble. His voice trembles like his hands do. "…No, I knew they'd care too much about stupid stuff like that."

"So it was all a make believe game to you," she whispers, hands on her face. "Did you even care about what would happen to me when I found out?"

It's pathetic, but Maka doesn't care. Suddenly she's nostalgic for all the times he held her hand and told her she was amazing and looked at her like she was a dream come true. If she had one wish, it would be for all of that to go back to how it used to be.

He's gasping, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying his damnest not to cry. So that's what she looks like when she won't let herself be swept away by emotion. At least it's something they have in common: hanging by a thread, afraid of losing.

"I did care, and I still do! I don't think I could ever stop caring. I love you, Maka," he breathes.

But it's too little too late. Or maybe she doesn't want to believe in fairytales, because someone like him doesn't belong with a nobody with no future and no past. No wonder he wouldn't let her in – deep inside, he knew it wouldn't last. Obviously, if he had some kind of hope they wouldn't be temporary, he would have been honest to begin with, and their friendship wouldn't be suffering for it.

_They_ wouldn't be suffering for it.

Maka's bottom lip quivers as she tries to steel her heart. She takes a deep, brave breath. "Was any of this real? Did you trick me on purpose?"

He looks more hurt than scandalized. "Everything I ever did or said was real, Maka, I promise."

It's not true. It _can't_ be true. She'd rather think he used her than to believe they could still have a chance.

"The marriage isn't real! Me and Anya – we don't even like each other as people." The irony is that he grins with his teeth showing just how Maka always wanted, except it's the type that's drenched in madness, his laughter manic, crazed. "She hates me and I hate myself. Ha, she's even dating two other girls right behind our parents' backs, and I never cared about any of it until I met you!"

Hands covering her ears, Maka squeezes her eyes shut so tightly psychedelic colors swirl around behind her eyelids. "Stop! I don't want to hear it!"

What's more miserable than imagining Soul happy with someone else is imagining him _unhappy_ for the rest of his life, bound to someone who doesn't appreciate his shy tenderness or his quiet presence or sleep talking when he's exhausted.

Clearly, no one's a winner in this situation.

Soul's been cracked open, and he can't stop bleeding: "I'm a coward and a loser and I don't deserve you, but… I hoped - I prayed I'd be good enough. Every day. And I don't even believe in God. I prayed my parents would change their minds or that Anya would put a stop to it too, but God is dead and he doesn't listen to liars like me."

"I don't want to hear it anymore." She's shaking, hyperventilating.

"I'm so _sorry_."

The problem with Soul is his glass face – he wears his emotions as he falls apart quietly, his chin quivering as he winces, bringing up his arm to hide his tear-streaked cheeks in the crook of his elbow. He's a mess, a hiccupping and bawling and disheveled mess, and there's nothing Maka can do to help.

Love isn't something he's good at, he cries - it's not easy and it's not natural, but _God_ does it feel wonderful with her. She's strong and beautiful and glorious, and it was his privilege to witness it firsthand. On the other hand, he's never been any of that, he says. All he has had are his parents' wishes. He was groomed from a young age to be a husband for the sake of social and monetary gain, and at the time, any of his wants or what he thought he would want were completely absent.

Honestly, he couldn't have been bothered to care about what happened to him.

But he's paying for it now that he knows what he wants and can't have it.

_Oh_ , Maka thinks. _Oh._ No wonder there's always been a desperate kind of futility to the way that he composed, in the way he never seemed to be at ease in his own house. He'd been a deeply sad boy, alone and confused and apathetic, and now he's a troubled young man with no control over his own life.

None of it makes the anger dull in her heart – only Soul and his gentle eyes could do such a thing, but now that there's an expiration to how long she can look into them, that's impossible, isn't it? Maka decides she could kiss him, she really could, just to kill the longing. She would sear herself on his mouth so he'll always burn with regret. It would haunt him, it would maim him, and he'd carry it around with him in the afterlife, too.

But Maka's not vindictive like that, just selfish. She still wants to be held, still wants to spend forever with him.

"But you care about me too, right?" Desperation does things to a person. In this case, it turns Soul into someone whose voice goes raspy and shaky with grief. "You love me, too."

"I – well," she chokes, clutching at her dress, gathering it all up in her fist so she can run away, but moving seems impossible.

"It felt like it." He covers his face with his hands, and when he runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes are red and wet, his frown deep-seated. "I'm stupid and awful."

Maka's not sure what she's saying 'stop' to – his words, the situation, the tears that are threatening to break free again. How can she lie and say she doesn't care when obviously she's in too deep?

"I need to go, Soul. Just – don't follow me, okay?" The idea consumes her. There needs to be more distance between them. Maka isn't anything remarkable, no – she can't rescue him from his parents just like she can't truly remember _her_ own parents. She's just a girl, a lonely girl.

Now Soul's done crying, shaken from his grief; the look on his face is desperate, but not shocked. Looking at him is hard. Maka would save him, if she could, but she's not sure that she knows how to save Soul, or even if he really can be saved anymore. She doesn't have parents but she knows enough about his to know that their word is law.

"Maka, please don't leave me." He drops to his knees at her feet like a marionette whose strings have been snipped away. "Oh _God_ , please don't leave me - I'll do anything. I'll do anything you want. No more secrets."

She sees red, red, red – ruby red, actually, and it's then she knows she can't ever hate him. He's there on the ground, worshipping her, trembling for her, _begging_ , dying for a life together with her.

Drowning. But she can't hold out a hand to save him, because she'd go down, too.

"Don't leave, don't leave, don't leave…"

But she does, and it doesn't sound like a door closing, which is how she always imagined loss - it sounds like her heels clicking against brilliant gold tiles as she walks away from the wreckage.


	8. Nothing fleeting at all

Spirit Albarn's eyes are the same color as hers – green like a forest, brilliant with all their shades of darkness.

That's how Soul had described her eyes to her, anyway, after his teasing about her pigtails mellowed into whispered, entranced observations about her face. Darkness had bled into the train as they sat on their separate benches, finding each other's outline in the shadows, and it was in those in-betweens that he had said she was a collection of curves and straight lines that fit together into something breathing taking.

Back then she had quietly burned because he had seemed to be overwhelmed with the want to reach out and touch her, maybe cup her face and trace her brow bones with his thumbs, but now Maka doesn't want to remember any of that.

Biting down cries by the water fountain where she ended up falling down, she stares back at the red-headed man who had materialized in front of her without her knowing. Days could have passed by since she left Soul and wandered into the backyard garden - _months_ \- but's it's probably only been half an hour.

"You _do_ look like her, but are you really her?" Spirit is saying to himself, amazed.

Sniffling into the long satin gloves Soul had helped her slip into, Maka's head begins to hurt. "I'm Maka, No Last Name."

If Blake were here he'd laugh and slap her back, but he's not, and she's reminded that she hasn't heard from him in too long. Maka traded him for something that was ill-fated, _wrong_ despite all its glory. How is she going to explain this in her letters? As overprotective as Blake is, she can't imagine that he would take the news lying down. He'd run across the world to plow a vengeful fist into Soul's face repeatedly, and even now as she tries to repress memories of Soul and his music, she doesn't want him to get hurt.

Spirit raises a concerned brow. The paternal instinct in him is apparently still alive despite his daughter being dead. "No last name? Why not?"

"Because I just _don't_ ," she replies, feeling her heart close off. "I don't even have a real first name. Maka is just a name I barely remember."

"I used to have a Maka, too. A long time ago." Spirit is tearing up, hands clawing at his face and looking up into the night sky like he's asking a God that doesn't exist why it had to be this way. "But I remember her so well. She was small and sweet and liked to dance."

Maka used to love to dance too, but only with Soul, who made her believe she didn't have to know anything about music to feel like she deserved to be by his side. She likes to think she was sweet, too, because Blake called her a softie and people mentioned she reminded them of an angel. And Soul loves sweet things, doesn't he? He had said he'd never tire of them, had said she was small, small and powerful.

Spirit takes a step toward her. "And my Maka loved to read. Do you like to read?"

She wants to tell this teary man that if he came out here to cry with her, he should just turn around and get lost. Her sorrow is hers and hers alone. Heartbreak shouldn't be shared because it's contagious and deadly and she still wants to live - sort of. And besides, asking her about the things she loves isn't going to help either of them.

Look at what happened with Soul.

"I need to leave," Maka says, not moving. There's nowhere to go because she doesn't belong anywhere. Soul was her home and that was a lie. It was silly to think she had a future falling asleep next to him every night, that there was a room inside him meant for her. Maybe there is one but it's just one of those that are off limits, boarded up, so there isn't a point of them being together.

"You kind of look like my Maka," Spirit repeats. "Your hair, especially. And the way you yell… It reminds me of my wife."

Distantly, Maka thinks her argument with Soul must have summoned the man from his reading room and that she should apologize for ruining his dead daughter's birthday party, but she's numb to caring. So what if she interrupted the man's brooding? So what if she let go of her emotions? It had felt wonderful, finally breaking.

"My wife was beautiful, and she deserved be-better… than _me_." Spirit sounds like a wounded animal waiting for death. "She loved our Maka _so much_. It killed her when we had to go into hiding… and Ma-Mak… _Maka_ couldn't come with us. It wasn't s-safe anymore. We le-left Maka with Marie and Stein, you see..." He gulps _hard_. "And all of them die–DIED, when Medusa's mercenary found them. All of th- _three_ of them."

Soul's voice echoes back to her, narrating the story of Shibusen's young princess bearing the child of a commoner, of that couple losing their only child. Though it's choppy because of his wails, Spirit's account sounds like a dream to Maka, an over bright dream that morphs into something dark and scary with people screaming in the background as tables and chairs screech across the floor around her. She imagines she's back there again, a young girl with twin pigtails listening to a piano song, its sound resonating with her as she can't find her parents-

"Our best frie-friends, and our _baby girl_. Dead."

"And you loved them best of all," Maka finishes with him. In her mind's eye there is a redheaded man who hands her over into the arms of an eccentric-looking man whose face is only held together by stitches. Her mama takes off her ring and necklace with unsteady hands and gifts them to Maka, who doesn't want them, not like _this_.

"Mhm, most of all," Spirit echoes. "How do you know?"

They both know. They both _must_ know. Maka does, at least, because she can't ignore the parallel between Spirit's past and her repetitive dream, which is actually _a memory_ , one that defies the art of losing. It ebbs from her periphery, permanent in its transience.

No wonder Soul seemed like someone she was forgetting to remember, how much it felt like déjà vu whenever they made eye contact. Maka can't believe the answer's been right in front of her this whole time - _he_ was the boy in her dreams who opened up to her so _easily_.

And Spirit _must_ be -

Now dry-eyed from shock, Maka unclasps the necklace from around her neck, squeezing it in her palm before wiggling her fingers at Spirit, motioning him over. He drops to the floor next to her, hand outstretched.

"Have you seen this before?" she asks, a little bit frantic. "I've had it since before I could remember."

Spirit goes still, staring at the gold in his palm as if he doesn't understand what she said. Then he pokes it with his thumb, swirling the chain around until he gets to the ring, turning it every which way. "Where did you get this?"

"Mama gave it to me. And then I never saw her again."

When Spirit looks at her, she can hear people tell her that she has her father's eyes. Right now his are made of nothing but disbelief. "Tell me about her. Your Mama."

Mama had black, long hair, freckles, and had made a mistake that she and Papa named Maka. A Queen-to-be, she was gentle and fierce and didn't appreciate being confined to a room with her newborn daughter and husband – she wanted the people to know about her little family, no matter how young she was, because she wasn't ashamed. But _her_ papa's love for her lessened after Maka's birth, and hence the confinement, the start of the royal family's secrets.

The shame wasn't unfounded. Mama's little family wasn't perfect and brought disgrace to the regal name, especially _him_ – Papa, whose penchant for gambling, drinking, and chasing after pretty women hurt even tiny Maka because sometimes he wasn't around to read to her at bedtime. And he made Mama sad, and that made Maka suffer by extension.

Papa was a contradiction – a good Papa, a bad husband.

"And then there was my papa. He was a cheater." Maka clenches her jaw, vision going blurry. She remembers Mama yelling that he didn't come home the night before and how it made her feel unimportant. Even though her mama is gone, Maka feels her pain. "Are you a cheater?"

"Yeah," he whimpers. "And a liar."

Her head hurts, thinking about Soul and his eyes. He is _so beautiful_ , but he isn't honest either. "I hate liars."

"My Maka hated liars, too."

Now she's really crying, silent hiccups splitting her chest. There's no air and she's seeing black as she loses feeling in her limbs. Spirit is there for her, though – _Papa_ is there, arms around her and holding tightly so they're not torn apart again, and it's nothing like deja vu or a dream at all.

It's real.

X

Maka doesn't have a middle name, but she _does_ have a last name: Albarn. Maka Albarn, Grand Duchess of Shibusen.

Or, she could have been if her family hadn't been thrown out of power, but that doesn't matter to Maka and it definitely holds low priority for Papa, who treats her like a princess anyway, buying her dresses as soft and elegant as silk. The tiara he places on her head gleams and twinkles brilliantly, every little doe-eyed child's dream. It's like they're playing dressed up, him in his elegant suit and Maka in a long dress that glimmers in the sunshine streaming in through the open window. Their smiling reflection in the mirror is everything she wanted – someone who loves her unconditionally, someone to love in return.

A parent.

Even after they've found each other, all Papa does is sniffle, though he does it happily. "Look at you, what a beautiful little princess."

"Papa, I'm not a princess," she laughs.

"You're _my_ princess," he coos, holding her out at arm's length. Sometimes, Maka can't tell if he's aware she's not a six-year-old anymore. Maybe in his head time hasn't existed since they were separated, even if she stands at five-foot-two and doesn't read picture books anymore. The lonely child in her doesn't snub the stuffed animals he gifts her, though, piling as many as she can on the four-poster canopy bed he bought and placed in a room he wasted no time furnishing to her liking.

Together, they piece their pasts together, Papa bursting into tears when Maka recalls all the times she had to go without socks in the dead of winter because she donated them to a younger child. Maka isn't surprised to pick up on her papa's less than healthy habits, either. Between their day trips to the beach and exploration of the city, he sneaks away to puff away at a couple of cigars, a cloud of smoke wafting behind him when he returns, the stench of ash stuck to his clothes.

Sometimes, when he's talking about Mama, he refills his glass too many times, his eyes puffy and bloodshot - _not_ from the sobbing they do together as two thirds of a family. Mourning Mama seems like an endless life sentence. Papa stays up too late when he's woozy, their night together starting off with giggling reminiscing fun and ending in less sober gibberish.

Between her worrying and confused happiness, Maka has no doubts she's found her real papa.

He's a mess, just like she remembers.

Every meal is a feast for them, a celebration. Maka has never seen so much food in her life, deciding that she dislikes all varieties of fish but loves anything warm. Comfort food is the best, but desserts have fallen from her favor.

"I remember ice cream was your favorite," Papa reminisces, handing her a cone of cold creamy goodness after her belated birthday dinner. She's finally eighteen, but she had refused to let Papa buy her a cake. There would be no point - she has no wishes left, because they've all come true.

Almost. She can't help but feel empty, like something is missing. _Someone_.

Wincing, Maka licks at the scoop of vanilla to be polite, humming a forced ' _mmm good'_ before changing the subject to going out for a stroll in the park. Sweet things have a bitter after taste thanks to _Soul_. He loved sweet things, and _she_ was sweet, too sweet and naïve and unsuspecting and blind to all the clues that had been right in front of her.

Maka tries not to think about Soul Evans, piano prodigy, best friend, shy introvert, engaged young man. So many other things run around in her mind, like how she should write to Blake and let him know she has a last name, how she should bring in some potted plants to liven the house up, but all thoughts lead to Soul when she's lounging in the bath. Time may not heal this wound – it's like she's lost a limb, at times feeling like he should be there when he's not.

He's probably married now, tethered to – what was her name? Anya, Anya Evans, who probably doesn't know that Soul forgets to comb his hair, doesn't appreciate his dimple, doesn't understand why music is so intimate and personal for him. Or maybe she does. There's no ill will towards her from Maka. Hopefully Anya can make Soul happy - if that's possible.

A whole month passes without Maka searching for Soul. And then another month. As disheartening as it is, the fact that he hasn't sought her out either speaks volumes about the state of their relationship.

It's _over_.

They could have been great together, strong and resilient, _a family_. Maybe if they had met at another time, things would have turned out differently, but then she wouldn't have reconnected with Papa.

Maybe she and Soul's relationship was meant to be short-lived. He was just passing by, after all. Sometimes she thinks about the way he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against her skin when they held hands and reels back, taking a deep, sharp breath so she won't fall apart. Crying isn't worth the pain. Fighting the need to have him back isn't either, and makes admitting that she _has_ to see him more difficult than it should be.

"I have to get my baby Blair," she tells Papa when they're planning a trip to the beach. "My kitten. She's at So-" She can't bear to say _his_ name, her tongue refusing to utter anything about him. "She's at Wes Evans's house."

Papa chews his scrambled eggs with a thoughtful look. "I'll go with you! I owe his brother a big thank you for returning my princess to me."

Gently tugging at her cheeks before bopping her nose, he tells her Soul is the reason he wandered out to find her that night in the first place. "He came running into my study and wouldn't leave until I agreed to go see you. He said that he met you back in Shibusen and that you looked just like my Maka. And he was right – you even cry like you did when you were six."

Finding her voice is difficult. "Soul did that for us? Even after I left him?"

"Mhm, he brought us together."

She thinks about it for hours, even in her sleep.

X

No more of Maka's memories return.

Maybe they left with her mama.

She lingers with them in the periphery of Maka's vision, just out of her reach. The art of losing is bittersweet like that, taking what means the most ( _look at what happened with Soul_.)

Papa confirms what he can and fills in the rest. Yes, Maka was confined to a room in mama's palace, because _her_ papa's shame allowed some mercy. Barely eighteen and completely disowned from his own family, Papa had no means to support all three of them, so the young family had no choice but to grin and bear it.

"We were saving up to run away together. You, Mama, and me," Papa explains, reclined in his chair, staring at the ceiling unblinkingly. "I remember she was so mad when I bought her that ring. Said I was irresponsible with our money, but she wore it all the time."

Maka plays with the necklace that she still wears around her neck, the ring attached to it. She tries not to think of Soul sliding it on her finger and holding her when she thought she'd lost it.

"You can have it back, Papa."

He whimpers a little bit, hand on his face. "No, I want you to keep it. I don't think I deserve it."

That's the last coherent thing he says for the rest of the night. Maka gingerly coaxes his wine glass out of his hand hours later when he's at the edge of being too far gone. Alcohol isn't the best coping mechanism - she'll have to help him wean off it. His grief knows no boundaries, but she's promised to fight alongside him, because she has some of that built up inside her too, like grime that accumulates on unwashed windows.

Papa cries a lot. He's had a lifetime of bad luck. He's not perfect but he's here somehow, the last standing out of all the people he had loved.

"How did you survive?" he asks her, wheezing.

Maka has been thinking about this long and hard ever since she was six and materialized on the orphanage's home in a bright yellow dress and a coat that looked like it was stitched together. She remembers another conversation, one when Soul was still in her life, and she feels like she's chewing on glass.

"I don't know, Papa. I don't remember…" When she closes her eyes, she finds herself back on the ship, seeing Soul again, his hair blowing in the wind and his eyes bright against the horizon's darkness. She repeats after him: "I don't think horrors like that are supposed to stay with us. It would be too much to carry around."

"You're so smart, Princess. I wish I could forget, too, but I think about it everyday. I think about your mama all the time, and how she only survived the overthrow to be sick all the time… How was I supposed to know that a broken heart could kill?"

Maka knows the rest of the story too well because he can't stop repeating it. Thank goodness she wasn't there - she wouldn't want to see her mama suffer from illness. And Maka is grateful she doesn't recall anything about how _she_ survived except for Stein's marred face and Marie's rose gold hair because Papa says they were killed, and that it was just the start of losing for him.

Nothing is permanent, not even Mama, but Papa holds on to her and what they had with a tight death grip.

Thinking hard, Maka finally understands - loss is a language, one she's inherently fluent in. It's an art that comes with being alive, and it dawns on her that not all fleeting things are gone forever.

Maybe Blake was right and at some point she did hit her head, _hard_. She's glad she can't remember that.

x

Papa shouldn't be allowed to drive.

This is only one of the few times she's been in a car but she's never been more afraid in her life. Her papa's ideology that other drivers should know to _move_ out of his way is completely wrong and terrifying. Fingers clawed into her seat in case they have to make a sudden stop, Maka has her eyes closed most of the way to Wes's house, taking in cleansing breathes to keep an anxiety attack at bay.

Not all of the chaos in her head is from being in the car, though.

Oblivious and completely lacking tact next to her, Papa practices his fatherly skills. "What were you and Soul fighting about that night?"

About _nothing_ , really, when Maka thinks about it. Nothing tangible existed between them past friendship, nothing labeled nor real. But they definitely broke up. And they're not friends anymore, and can't be, and that's what she tells Papa, who isn't like Soul at all. He sticks his hand out the window to wave to ladies between giving her comforting pats on the back. The voice that wafts through her head sounds a lot like Soul saying, " _The guy was – is still – a total pervert_."

At least he had warned her about her papa's flirtatious tendencies.

Maka bubbles into laughter, thinking about Soul. It's only a defense mechanism. She's done crying, so there's nothing left to do but remember how Soul had dropped hints all along, from his weird reaction to her ring, to his explanation about the ball and how he knows Spirit, and even to the way he lashed out when people asked if he was married to her.

It's just funny, in a bitter, nostalgic sort of way. She can't even be mad anymore because she misses him, sharp tongue and all. And she's not ready to let go yet, no - it feels like he's just walked out of the room and he'll be back any second, and she's not sure whether she'll hug him for returning or deck him for leaving in the first place.

He wasn't the one who left, though.

"Are you okay, Princess?"

"Papa, I'm not a princess."

That's hilarious to Maka, too – beyond that even, downright hysterical. From rags to riches, to being an orphan to having a papa who loves her best of all. But escaping the feeling that she's lost something in the process is disquieting. So she laughs all the way to Wes's house and doesn't stop even when Papa pulls past the gate and up the driveway, giving her a disconcerted look.

She's given into the madness, and it's perfect.

X

Wes answers the door. Maka's heart drops like a stone at seeing his kind brown eyes instead of Soul's ruby ones, at entering the house where she and Soul had once danced to the music in his head.

"I'm here for Blair," she explains without preamble. Pretending she doesn't care if Soul's around or not is quite a feat. "I want to take her home with me."

"Welcome back," Wes says, bowing. She knows it has nothing to do with her newfound title and everything to do with his over-the-top mannerisms "Right this way, Miss Maka. She's missed you as much as you've missed her, I'm sure."

Blair must have sensed Maka's approach because her meows echo throughout the hallway as they treader closer. They don't end up in front of the door to the room she stayed in, but in front of Soul's.

"She's been a delight," Wes says as he opens the door and Blair leaps out blindly.

"Oh, _Blair,_ you're a big girl now, a big kitty," Maka cries, holding her close. Tears cling to her eyelashes as she closes her eyes, reveling in Blair's pureness and soft fur.

"Soul's been taking care of her," Wes explains, hand on the doorknob.

Maka can't help but force herself to sour at any mention of him. It's superficial though, staged, a lie. It could come crumbling down if she wanted. "Even though he's _allergic_?"

"He deals well enough." There's a pause before Wes takes a deep breath and starts playing the meddlesome brother. "Maka, please stay and talk to him – he should be back any time. He's out with our parents-"

"No, I think it's better this way." After all, most precious things are temporary – she should have _known_ , because Soul's beauty isn't the kind that lasts forever. Not in her life.

Despite their similar physical features, Wes isn't anything like Soul. He doesn't talk too fast when his emotions get in the way, nor does he beat around the bush, clumsy with his words. "Miss Maka, I promise you that Soul didn't mean to hurt you. He really, _really_ does care about you. He's lost and confused about everything except you-"

She holds her hand out to make him stop. "I just want to forget, Wes. I'm trying to move past it."

Even Wes's frown doesn't look like Soul's. His doesn't stem from deep-seated misery, only second-hand dejection. He's such a good brother, sticking his neck out for Soul. "Can he say goodbye to Blair before he goes back to Shibusen with my parents, at least?"

Maka's blood runs cold, hearing faint wedding bells. Denying that the news breaks her heart would be a lie - a dirty, ugly, revolting _lie_. All of a sudden she's back at the water fountain, the grief overrunning her like a flood. She's losing Soul again, this time for good.

"Uhm," she breathes, hugging Blair against her chest with wobbly arms.

Wes must see her lips ready to mouth the word 'no' because he says, "Soul loves that kitten so much."

As if offering her input, Blair meows into the heavy silence. It's not fair that everyone around Maka seems to love Soul – strangers who love his music, bands who need a pianist, little orphaned kittens who want to be where it's warm and safe. Even _Papa_ 's affinity for him is genuine and has been for over a decade, or else he wouldn't have invited Soul to play at the ball every year, wouldn't have listened to Soul's pleading to go after her that night.

What's more awful is that Maka isn't immune to Soul either.

She wants to see him one last time.

"I mean, I suppose so," she agrees, nodding at Wes's relieved thank you's, unsteady on her heels as he guides her to the door where Papa is waiting outside in the car. Blair jumps into his lap and rolls around as he scratches her belly, both of them playing like old friends while Maka sits in the passenger seat, numb and scared.

Of what, she's not sure – of Soul, of the distance between them, of her decisions, of a life that could have been, of never forgetting _him_ and how he makes her feel.

It's never been about Blair.

X

When Soul visits at the end of the week, finally, Maka surrenders and lets herself think about maybe kissing him. The anger in her heart has dulled into longing by now, even before looking into his eyes. Taboo or not, she wants to kiss him _so badly_ , even if it would be the first and last time. It's really only a logical extension of _them_ , and so what if she's been dreaming about it and him and what they had for a little while now?

Instead, she lets her lips tingle as he stands there at the entrance to the garden, his clothes worn with the same careless disregard he's always fit in them: tie loose, vest unbuttoned, shirt partially untucked, slacks sitting low on slim hips.

His hands aren't delved into his pockets. No, they're bare and empty at his side.

"Hi," he says, cautious.

She feels _naked_ under his gaze, the sundress she has on suddenly not enough. "Soul – _hi!_ I didn't hear you walk up."

"I knocked on the door, but no one answered, and I heard Blair meowing…" Trailing off, he rubs the back of his neck.

"You can come in," Maka offers, heart beating in her throat.

From the bushes where she was hiding, Blair catches wind of Soul's presence and scampers to him as he locks the gate behind him, bending down to take her in his arms. Slight jealousy eats away at Maka, who watches the two nuzzle, Blair purring into his hand as he whispers sweet nothings to her. That could have been _Maka_ -

Ironically, she's the one who feels like an outsider, sitting on the stone bench amongst her papa's vivid roses and thriving greenery. A shiver rolls down her spine as she remembers when she sat with Soul in his family's snow-covered garden, making plans for their future. The same memory must be playing in his mind because he glances up at her with curiosity.

In this light, his eyes are gentle with all their darkness, a red so deep it hurts.

"Uh," he begins. It's endearing – he never did know how to express himself in her presence. "How are you? Are you happy?"

_Sort of_ , almost. Everything's going fine, perfect even, her life finally in order. And yet… She can only nod, afraid her mouth will betray her.

"Good," he says, his voice laced with faint disappointment. He gulps before going on, "I'm leaving today. I wanted to apologize again."

Maka's head throbs with a distant headache. "Don't, Soul…"

Now it's his turn to nod quietly, regretfully. He gives Blair one last hug before setting her on the floor, sneezing shortly after.

"This is it, then. I'm leaving… I just wanted to say goodbye," he says. It reminds her of Blake and how his letters are always encouraging in their own bizarre way. Maka won't have any of that with Soul. At least she can imagine his life going on without her, filled with music and traveling and maybe even love if the day comes he can make himself love Anya.

After all, Maka and Soul can't be _just_ friends, not after what they've been through.

She wants all of him or nothing.

" _No_ , Blair," he chides, petting the kitten on the head anyway before gently pushing her toward Maka. It doesn't work. She keeps coming back, and he's clicking his tongue at her, straightening his back and pushing her away with the toe of his polished shoe.

This time he's not doing it out of fear – there's even a bit of reluctance as he gulps. "You can't come with me. You belong with Maka."

Seeing him practically kick Blair away does something to Maka, who blurts out, "Stop being so rough with her!"

He raises a brow at her but doesn't say anything except a bashful, "Sorry…"

Maka forgives him. For that, and for hiding a bit of himself during the time they spent together. It's hard not to when he's so close and his eyes are so gentle, so strange in this bright light. He was only trying to protect them both from what they couldn't have. She can see that now, and maybe she can force herself to accept it some day in the future, albeit begrudgingly.

She'll have to.

"Well..." There he goes, hands sinking into the deep pockets of slacks that he probably skipped ironing. Hiding again. "Thank you for letting me see Blair."

"Yeah, sure," she says. Swallowing is difficult. "Tell Wes I said thanks too. For everything."

"Mhm." He looks at the ground. "Uhm, and… thanks for listening to my song."

She can't lie. "It was beautiful. Thank you for playing it, Soul…"

What she can't say is that she's grateful for every second of what they had. His dimpled smile, his help, his gentle hands and rumbly voice, his companionship. For his strength, for bringing her to Papa, for his patience.

The way he brightens up kills her a little. "Maybe – maybe I could play it for you again?"

"No," she says too quickly. Of course she wants to hear it again, but it will only delay the inevitable. "Once was enough. I never thought I'd hear that song again, but… once is enough."

Soul says it's okay, but clearly it's _not_ because he kicks at the pebbles near his shoe, probably too upset to look at her.

"I really did love it. Your song."

But if Soul understands what she means, he sure doesn't show it. "Yeah, sure… Whatever."

"What's that mean?" She narrows her eyes at him, outraged with herself that she can't read him. He wears his heart on her sleeve but it's written in musical notes, or maybe braille - either way, she's blind to it sometimes. Anger is all she knows. How is it that she can find the pointy edges of his frown beautiful? Lots of things about him are like that, dangerous and harsh but magnificent.

He shrugs, resigned. "Nothing."

Proud that he's standing tall instead of slouching over, Maka stares at him – it'll be the last time, after all, because she's staying in New York with Papa and Soul's future belongs to Anya, traveling who knows where. So Maka has to remember him how he is, with his sleeves rolled up and hair carelessly tousled, long limbs and understanding hands. They won't see each other anymore, so she has to remember all of him.

The thought makes Maka's eyes sting.

"Okay, well... Good luck," she tries again. It's a good in-between, a safe word. Standing here in the sunshine, in the garden's lovely silence, as they teeter into goodbye isn't going to kill her because she won't let it.

"Yeah," is all that comes out of him.

Losing her patience, the edges of her vision start to blur. She could run through the space that separates them and shake the indifference out of him. This is exactly the Soul she knows, clamming up, moodily shifting his weight, pretending not to care. "What's your problem, Soul?"

"Nothing," he grunts, though his body language tells her otherwise. His mouth is twisted into a scowl now, shoulders tense, elbows locked, teeth clenched. He's holding his breath. Maka can see herself undoing him with only a touch and she's tempted to do so, but if she dares, she might never let go.

"Stop lying. Obviously, something's wrong. Spit it out."

He opens up _so easily_ : "If you hated the song, you could have said so-"

"I never said anything like that, Soul."

"Then why don't you want to hear it again?"

"Because-"

"Because you're done with me, yeah, I get it," he sighs. "I don't blame you."

"I have no choice. You're going to marry Anya!"

Soul swears, _loudly_ , bitterly. "I already told you I'm not marrying her."

Behind him, Maka notices a suitcase sitting by the gate, and it all makes sense – history repeats itself. If he wants a fight, he'll get it; she makes sure to aim a sour look at him as she snorts, "Oh, I get it now – you're not really going to Shibusen with your parents, are you? You're running away again!"

He cackles to himself. "Yeah. You'd think my parents would have learned not to trust me by now."

Maka hadn't wanted this to turn into an ugly, distressing last encounter, but it's not fair that he's shutting down right as he's _leaving_ , even if she has no right to feel entitled. They came here holding hands - isn't it right that they should leave together in the same fashion? She has to remind herself that she's supposed to hate him, that he _lied_ , that it's all his fault they're not together anymore.

"By yourself? No other girl with you?"

"Just me, myself, and I," he confirms. "Not Anya, not anyone else. I'm just going to keep running away, maybe play at some Jazz clubs to make some money, so you don't have to worry about me."

"I won't worry. I don't, actually," she lies, wishing she could go with him because she wants to hear his music, even if she doesn't understand it. She can't stand the thought of being far from him as he pursues something that makes him happy. "Do whatever you want."

"Fine."

"Fine," she says through clenched teeth, holding on to Blair too tightly. "You can leave now, too, since you're being a brat."

Soul backing away shouldn't hurt because he's only doing what he's told, but good _God_ does it start a fire in her lungs. The ground beneath her feet must be tilting - that's why she's seeing double. There is lightning in her blood and thunder rumbling around in her chest as he pretends he doesn't care, drifting farther away.

Surely it's the chemistry between them. Will it ever stop? She both hopes it does and doesn't.

"Fine," he's saying, hands in the air as if surrendering. "As you wish, Your Grace. Thanks for letting me see Blair one last time."

"Yeah, sure – _whatever_ ," she sneers.

The jab was meant to disarm and maim and it most certainly does its job. Soul's face reddens with anger, and that's just how Maka has always wanted him – full of emotion for _her_. "I don't know what you want from me! One minute you're open with me, and the next you're kicking me out-"

"Oh! Oh, _no_ , you don't get to blame me." She stoops down to let Blair run back into the bushes. "That was all _you_. You were never honest with me. You were always hiding away."

"But I _was_ honest, Maka, about everything!"

"Liar liar _liar_ ," she singsongs, straining her voice. The incoherent thoughts that had been whirling around in her head since the night of the ball suddenly come out. "Was any of it real? Did you ever really care about me? You…. oh. _Oh._ You probably never told me about your engagement because you had ulterior motives!"

Scandalized, he stares at her, offended and hurt and shell-shocked.

"You probably knew I was Maka all along, that Spirit was my papa…"

"Yeah, I had a suspicion," he admits, wincing, probably knowing full well that it makes him look bad.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He takes five steps toward her, every one of them in sync with the slow, loud thrashing in her chest. "There was never a right time to tell you. You never seemed ready, and I didn't want to spring it on you. And anyway, would you have believed me? 'Hey Maka, I think you're royalty, a dead grand duchess.'"

She clenches her fists. "No, but-"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. And I wasn't sure until you told me about your dream when we were on the train, and even then it didn't really make sense until the night of the ball. So there."

His hands are in his stupid pockets _again_ and she wants to tackle him and hold his hands above his head, wants to slant her mouth over his -

The machinery in her head must be short-circuiting because she's imagining the worst about him. Against all of her better senses, she closes the gap between them, marching right up to him, pointer finger jabbing him in the chest.

"I know exactly what your game was, Soul. You _knew_ I was the missing duchess all along, and you thought once I fell in love with you, you could trick me into marrying you. Your parents would be so thrilled at seeing their son married to royalty that they would have left you alone forever!"

Soul's face is still, unreadable. "Did it work, then?"

A whimper escapes as her chin quivers. _Don't cry_. "You're awful, just awful."

He doesn't waver, doesn't blink. "No, I mean… did you fall in love with me?"

_Of course_ she did – it wouldn't feel like death right now, caught between the edge of a sword and a wall if she hadn't. She's not sure when she crossed that threshold separating platonic love and something more complicated, either. Sometime between catching him staring curiously and dancing with him, her feelings changed, deepened.

"That doesn't matter!" _Stay angry, stay angry._ "Why didn't you tell me you were engaged?"

"I already told you - it's because I'm selfish. I didn't want to lose you before I had to."

"Oh," she says, having never thought someone could think _she's_ fleeting. It's never occurred to her that someone out there might be afraid of losing her. Not even Papa had considered her something transitory, she supposes, because he had waited and waited for her to return, believing she defied death.

But Soul is like her. Things in his life are short-lived, too: music, his travels. Even his brother, who moved away when Soul was eight and has only seen once a year since then.

"I didn't want you to be one of those things that don't last, Maka."

She should have picked up on this fact when he asked her to accompany him to New York, or when he dropped to his hands and knees and begged her to _stay_. The cagey look on his face had said it all - _he_ had said it all.

" _Don't leave me, don't leave me."_

But God, she was stupid then and still is, even now. She needs things said outright. It's the hit she probably took to her head - it rattled her, made her scatter-brained. And she isn't good at thinking straight when it's about Soul.

A bout of sneezes has him turning his head away and it only makes her dizzy with frustration. She's not done arguing with him – she might never be, because that's when they're working their best to harmonize.

"Dumb cat," he coughs into his elbow. "Made my eyes itchy, and now I can't breathe."

Maka sees lightning bolts when she blinks. " _She's not dumb_!"

"Yeah, you're right. _I_ am. I'm so stupid. I wish I never came here," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. He's still at it when he adds, "... Anya's a princess too, by the way. She's from Yngling. My parents wanted me to marry royalty, so they got royalty. So it's not like you being an Albarn changes anything."

In Maka's mind's eye they're both children again, spinning around on gleaming gold tiles.

" _Do you want to dance with me?"_

"I've seen you dance and you're not good at it."

" _Hmmph! Papa said I dance like a princess."_

" _Because you are a princess. I've danced with other princesses and they know different types of dances."_

It clicks.

The revelation should blow her argument into smithereens, but Maka won't let it. She's a woman scorned, and she's never lost a battle and won't start now, even if this one's self-sabotaging.

"So you have a _type_. Princesses."

Soul narrows his eyes and brings his face closer to hers, sobering Maka enough for her realize that they're both angry, angry at something, at _nothing_ ; the simmering is beginning to boil. They've run out of things to fight about but they keep going at it, going in circles, resolving nothing. The problem is that he's engaged against his will, he never told her, she's mad that they can't be together, but he insists they _can_ still be together - if she'll let them.

It all just makes her blisteringly angry because it's true and it's her fault because deep down, she's just afraid. He knows it, too. _Open up_ , he begs, he wants to hear that she loves him, says she's closed off sometimes, too. Soul knows her like he knows music. He says she's terrified of losing and the hurt that follows it, says she's just like him - self-sabotaging, perpetually lost and confused.

He blames the art of losing - it's making her push him away, and it hurts like hot glass digging itself into his leg. They both run away from the things that make them happy, destructive in their methods to keep themselves safe.

But he's done running.

"Maka, Maka." He sets his jaw. "You're too stubborn for your own good. You don't understand. I care about you _so much_."

Then he says he's in love with her, but it only heats her up more because he's so far away still, a sliver of a space between their mouths, and nothing can remedy the fact that when they're done arguing about absolutely nothing he'll be…

Leaving.

Accusations run fast and wildly: _you lied_ , you don't listen, how could you do this to us I cared about you, you're not listening _I do care_ , but you're _leaving_ , because you told me to Maka, but you didn't come looking for me, because you _left_ me Maka, because you _lied_ Soul, do you hate me now?

And then there's just breathing or something similar as they look into each other's eyes and go still with the realization that the heated argument only brought their faces closer together. Now they're just staring at each other's lips, standing still like marble statues caught in some tragedy.

She looks into his eyes, thinking hard, but nothing comes to her. "Do you promise that you care? Can you _show me_ that you love me?"

Their whole time together has lead up to this. The air around them has been charging up with unrest, and it only makes sense that neither of them can take it anymore. The simmering is boiling loudly; lightning has finally struck.

Suddenly, his hands slide onto either side of her face, gentle in their roughness as he leans in to close the space between their mouths. She moves to meet him halfway, closing her eyes like she's falling asleep. They collide, _finally_ , and it's only natural that he catches her mid-breath, because it's those in-betweens that find their way under her skin and stay there.

Soul kisses her _hard_ until he can't anymore, his lips like fire, burning even after they've pulled away to stare at each other in the quiet aftermath. And then they're a moment playing on repeat, this time so slow, so soft, so delicate; their lips barely touch. Maka feels faint waiting for it to deepen, to meet him in the depths.

After all, the world is full of brief things, and she's not sure where this falls. But then she decides that's okay because she remembers she's a great follower, a reflection of his that's two seconds behind. Her hands reach for him, taking their time - cupping his cheeks, sliding her hands down to his chest, pulling him closer by the belt loops before deciding that's not enough either.

It's not until she's wrapped her arms around him, _tight_ , that she feels that they've clicked. He must sense it too, because she feels one side of his mouth rising higher than the other before he rests his forehead on hers. "Are you convinced?"

She can't reply, mind already wandering. It's doing that thing where it zeroes in on some insignificant detail when it's overstimulated, and this time it's the fact that his luggage is waiting for him, that he's not permanent enough in her life.

"You promised you'd stay with me the whole time," she says, squinting at him as she thinks, everything coming to her in a whirlwind.

"Mhm, and I always keep my promises."

Letting go of him is easy because she has it all planned out - they're going to be together forever. Maka sweeps her fingers along her neck, finding the thin gold chain she's had since before she can remember, unclasping it. Soul watches her with confused amazement, and she hopes she never stops having that effect on him as she holds her mama's ring out to him. "Do you want to marry me?"

He's dazed for sure. "Me? You're asking _me_?"

"Yes you, Soul. There's no one else. I - I don't want to lose you..."

She feels her face heat up like it does when she's on the verge of some extreme emotion. Heartbreak is there in her periphery, coming in like the tide, and she lets it flood her. It aches. Face hot, she gets lost in it, in the way Soul's eyes widen, vivid in their fragility as he stares like it'll never be enough.

When he speaks, his voice is raspy, taking the ring and sliding it on her finger. "I can't promise that it'll be perfect, or that I won't make you mad sometimes, but I can promise I'll always be there."

She grins, tearing up even more, face crumpling as she lets go of it all, whimpering, "Really?"

" _God_ , yes. And each time we kiss or fight or dance, it'll be like the first time all over again. I'll play you any song you want, and I'll read to you - I'll _sing_ them to you."

Now she's bawling, sniffling and hiccupping and laughing and thinking that this moment won't last forever, but its brevity is what makes it beautiful. "So… we're really getting married?"

He's laughing with her, fingers in each other's hair as they hold each other close, tips of their noses grazing. "Yeah, we're eloping."

In her mind's eye, she can see herself writing a letter to Blake to let him know she has _two_ last names now, can see her papa bursting into jubilant tears when she introduces Soul as the newest member of their healing family. She can see herself and Soul moving through life together as equals even though she's not entirely here sometimes, even though she can't read sometimes.

"Wait," she gasps, panicked. She's always two seconds behind and that's permanent, but she figures she doesn't have to be perfect because she has a musician who keeps time well. "You never finished your story!"

"It's not over yet," he grins. "Promise you'll stay with me to see how it plays out?"

"Promise."

No matter how long Maka stares into Soul's eyes, it's never quite enough, but she feels dizzy standing here in the bright garden with her soulmate. She puts her hands over his eyes, thinking that she'll have forever to admire the darkness in them, because he's nothing fleeting at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I hope you enjoyed - please let me know your thoughts c:


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